-  -;• 


-~ 

J 


GOUVERJCUR.  MORRIS 


X 


TO 
ELSIE,  PATSIE,  AND  KATE 

I  had  thought  to  sit  in  the  ruler's  chair, 
But  three  pretty  girls  are  sitting  there — 

Elsie,  Patsie,  and  Kate. 
I  had  thought  to  lord  it  with  eyes  of  gray, 
I  had  thought  to  be  master,  and  have  my  way; 
But  six  blue  eyes  vote:   nay,  nay,  nay! 

Elsie,  Patsie,  and  Kate. 

Of  Petticoats  three  I  am  sore  afraid, 
(Though  Kate's  is  more  like  a  candle-shade), 

Elsie,  Patsie,  and  Kate. 
And  I  must  confess  (with  shame)  to  you 
That  time  there  was  when  Petticoats  two 
Were  enough  to  govern  me  through  and  through, 

Elsie,  Patsie,  and  Kate. 

Oh  Patsie,  third  of  a  bullying  crew, 

And  Elsie,  and  Kate,  be  it  known  to  you — 

To  Elsie,  Patsie,  and  Kate, 
That  Elsie  alone  was  strong  enough 
To  smother  a  motion,  or  call  a  bluff, 
Or  any  small  pitiful  atom  thereof — 

Elsie,  Patsie,  and  Kate. 
v 

469674 


So,  tJwugh  I've  renounced  that  ruler's  part 
To  which  I  was  born  (as  is  writ  in  my  heart), 

Elsie,  Patsie,  and  Kate, 

Though  I  do  what  I'm  told  (yes,  you  know  /  do) 
And  am  made  to  write  stories  (and  sell  them,  too), 
Still — I  wish  to  God  I  had  more  like  you, 

Elsie,  Patsie,  and  Kate. 

BAR  HARBOR,  August,  1910. 


AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

Certain  persons  have  told  me  (for  nothing) 
that  " White  Muscats  of  Alexandria  "  resem 
bles  a  tale  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  And  so  it 
does.  Most  damningly.  And  this  is  printed 
in  the  hope  of  saving  other  persons  postage. 


CONTENTS 

The  Spread  Eagle 


PAGE 
1 


Targets 53 

The  Boot 73 

The  Despoiler 107 

One  More  Martyr 129 

"Ma'am?" 

Mr.  Holiday 

White  Muscats  of  Alexandria 207 

Without  a  Lawyer 225 

The  "Monitor"  and  the  "Merrimac"      .     .  239 

The  McTavish 267 

The  Parrot 309 

On  the  Spot;  or,  The  Idler's  House-Party    .  321 


THE   SPREAD   EAGLE 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

In  his  extreme  youth  the  adulation  of  all  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact  was  not  a  cross  to  Fitzhugh  Williams. 
It  was  the  fear  of  expatriation  that  darkened  his  soul. 
From  the  age  of  five  to  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was 
dragged  about  Europe  by  the  hair  of  his  head.  I  use 
his  own  subsequent  expression.  His  father  wanted 
him  to  be  a  good  American;  his  mother  wanted  him 
to  be  a  polite  American.  And  to  be  polite,  in  her  mind, 
was  to  be  at  home  in  French  and  German,  to  speak 
English  (or  American)  with  the  accent  of  no  particular 
locality,  to  know  famous  pictures  when  you  saw  them, 
and,  if  little,  to  be  bosom  friends  with  little  dukes  and 
duchesses  and  counts  of  the  Empire,  to  play  in  the  gravel 
gardens  of  St.  Germain,  to  know  French  history,  and  to 
have  for  exercise  the  mild  English  variations  of  Ameri 
can  games — cricket  instead  of  base-ball;  instead  of  foot 
ball,  Rugby,  or,  in  winter,  lugeing  above  Montreux. 
To  luge  upon  a  sled  you  sit  like  a  timid,  sheltered 
girl,  and  hold  the  ropes  in  your  hand  as  if  you  were 
playing  horse,  and  descend  inclines;  whereas,  as  Fitz 
hugh  Williams  well  knew,  in  America  rich  boys  and 

3 


THE  SPREAD   EAGLE 

poor  take  their  hills  head  first,  lying  upon  the  demo 
cratic  turn. 

It  wasn't  always  Switzerland  in  winter.  Now  and 
again  it  was  Nice  or  Cannes.  And  there  you  were 
taught  by  a  canny  Scot  to  hit  a  golf  ball  cunningly  from 
a  pinch  of  sand.  But  you  blushed  with  shame  the  while, 
for  in  America  at  that  time  golf  had  not  yet  become 
a  manly  game,  the  maker  young  of  men  as  good  as 
dead,  the  talk  of  cabinets  But  there  was  lawn  tennis 
also,  which  you  might  play  without  losing  caste  "at 
home.'*  Fitzhugh  Williams  never  used  that  term  but 
with  the  one  meaning.  He  would  say,  for  instance,  to 
the  little  Duchess  of  Popinjay — or  one  just  as  good — 
having  kissed  her  to  make  up  for  having  pushed  her 
into  her  ancestral  pond,  "  Now  I  am  going  to  the  house," 
meaning  Peith  House,  that  Mrs.  Williams  had  taken 
for  the  season.  But  if  he  had  said,  "Now  I  am  going 
home,"  the  little  Duchess  would  have  known  that  he 
was  going  to  sail  away  in  a  great  ship  to  a  strange, 
topsy-turvy  land  known  in  her  set  as  "the  States," 
a  kind  of  deep  well  from  which  people  hoist  gold  in 
buckets,  surrounded  by  Indians.  Home  did  not  mean 
even  his  father's  house.  Let  Fitzhugh  Williams  but 
catch  sight  of  the  long,  white  shore  of  Long  Island, 
or  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  or  the  amazing  Liberty,  and 
the  word  fluttered  up  from  his  heart  even  if  he  spoke 
it  not.  Ay,  let  him  but  see  the  Fire  Island  light-ship 

4 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

alone  upon  the  deep,  and  up  leaped  the  word,  or  the 
sensation,  which  was  the  same  thing. 

One  Fourth  of  July  they  were  in  Paris  (you  go  to 
Paris  for  tea-gowns  to  wear  grouse-shooting  in  Scot 
land),  and  when  his  valet,  scraping  and  bowing,  in 
formed  Fitzhugh  Williams,  aged  nine,  that  it  was  time 
to  get  up,  and  tub,  and  go  forth  in  a  white  sailor  suit, 
and  be  of  the  world  worldly,  Fitzhugh  declined.  A 
greater  personage  was  summoned — Aloys,  "the  maid 
of  madame,"  a  ravishing  creature — to  whom  you  and 
I,  good  Americans  though  we  are,  could  have  refused 
nothing.  But  Fitzhugh  would  not  come  out  of  his 
feather-bed.  And  when  madame  herself  came,  looking 
like  a  princess  even  at  that  early  hour,  he  only  pulled 
the  bedclothes  a  little  higher  with  an  air  of  finality. 

"Are  you  sick,  Fitzhugh?" 

"No,  mamma." 

"Why  won't  you  get  up?" 

His  mother  at  least  was  entitled  to  an  explanation. 

"  I  won't  get  up,"  said  he, "  because  I'm  an  American." 

"But,  my  dear,  it's  the  glorious  Fourth.  All  good 
Americans  are  up." 

"All  good  Americans,"  said  Fitzhugh,  "are  at  home 
letting  off  fire-crackers." 

"Still,"  said  his  mother,  "I  think  I'd  get  up  if  I 
were  you.  It's  lovely  out.  Not  hot." 

"I  won't  get  up,"  said  Fitzhugh,  "because  it's  the 
5 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

Fourth,  because  I'm  an  American,  and  because  I  have 
nothing  but  English  clothes  to  put  on." 

His  mother,  who  was  the  best  sort  in  the  world, 
though  obstinate  about  bringing-up,  and  much  the 
prettiest  woman,  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  laughed  till 
the  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  Fitzhugh  laughed,  too. 
His  mind  being  made  up,  it  was  pleasanter  to  laugh 
than  to  sulk. 

"But,"  said  his  mother,  "what's  the  difference? 
Your  pajamas  are  English,  too." 

Fitzhugh's  beautiful  brown  eyes  sparkled  with  mis 
chief. 

"What!"  exclaimed  his  mother.  "You  wretched 
boy,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  haven't  your 
pajamas  on?" 

Fitzhugh  giggled,  having  worsted  his  mother  in 
argument,  and  pushed  down  the  bedclothes  a  few 
inches,  disclosing  the  neck  and  shoulders  of  that  satiny 
American  suit  in  which  he  had  been  born. 

Mrs.  Williams  surrendered  at  once. 

"My  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "if  you  feel  so  strongly 
about  it  I  will  send  your  man  out  at  once  to  buy  you 
some  French  things.  They  were  our  allies,  you  know." 

"Thank  you,  mamma,"  said  Fitz,  "and  if  you'll 
give  me  the  pad  and  pencil  on  the  table  I'll  write  to 
granny." 

Thus  compromise  was  met  with  compromise,  as  is 
6 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

right.  Fitz  wrote  a  very  short  letter  to  granny,  and 
drew  a  very  long  picture  of  crossing  the  Delaware, 
with  Nathan  Hale  being  hanged  from  a  gallows  on  the 
bank;  and  Mrs.  Williams  sent  Benton  for  clothes,  and 
wrote  out  a  cable  to  her  husband,  a  daily  cable  being 
the  one  thing  that  he  who  loved  others  to  have  a  good 
time  was  wont  to  exact.  "Dear  Jim,"  ran  the  cable, 
at  I  forget  what  the  rates  were  then  per  word,  "I  wish 
you  were  here.  It's  bright  and  beautiful;  not  too  hot. 
Fitz  would  not  get  up  and  put  on  English  clothes,  being 
too  patriotic.  You  will  run  over  soon  if  you  can,  won't 
you,  if  only  for  a  minute,"  etc.,  etc. 

I  know  one  thing  of  which  the  reader  has  not  as 
yet  got  an  inkling.  The  Williamses  were  rich.  They 
were  rich,  passing  knowledge,  passing  belief.  Sums 
of  which  you  and  I  dream  in  moments  of  supreme 
excitement  would  not  have  paid  one  of  Mrs.  Williams's 
cable  bills;  would  not  have  supported  Granny  Will 
iams's  hot-houses  and  Angora  cat  farm  through  a  late 
spring  frost.  James  Williams  and  his  father  before 
him  were  as  magnets  where  money  was  concerned. 
And  it  is  a  fact  of  family  history  that  once  James,  re 
turning  from  a  walk  in  the  mud,  found  a  dime  sticking 
to  the  heel  of  his  right  boot. 

Fitzhugh  was  the  heir  of  all  this,  and  that  was  why  it 
was  necessary  for  him  to  be  superior  in  other  ways 
as  well.  But  Europeanize  him  as  she  would,  he  re- 

7 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

mained  the  son  of  his  fathers.  French  history  was 
drummed  in  through  his  ears  by  learned  tutors,  and 
could  be  made  for  the  next  few  days  to  come  out  of  his 
mouth.  But  he  absorbed  American  history  through 
the  back  of  his  head,  even  when  there  was  none  about 
to  be  absorbed,  and  that  came  out  often,  I  am  afraid, 
when  people  didn't  especially  want  it  to.  Neither  could 
any  amount  of  aristocratic  training  and  association  turn 
the  blood  in  his  veins  blue.  If  one  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  look  at  a  specimen  of  it  under  a  microscope 
I  believe  one  would  have  discovered  a  resemblance  be 
tween  the  corpuscles  thereof  and  the  eagles  that  are 
the  tails  of  coins;  and  the  color  of  it  was  red — bright 
red.  And  this  was  proven,  that  time  when  little  Lord 
Percy  Pumps  ran  at  Fitz,  head  down  like  a  Barbadoes 
nigger,  and  butted  him  in  the  nose.  The  Honorable 
Fifi  Grey,  about  whom  the  quarrel  arose,  was  witness 
to  the  color  of  that  which  flowed  from  the  aforemen 
tioned  nose;  and  witness  also  to  the  fact  that  during 
the  ensuing  cataclysm  no  blood  whatever,  neither  blue 
nor  red,  came  from  Lord  Percy  Pumps — nothing  but 
howls.  But,  alas!  we  may  not  now  call  upon  the 
Honorable  Fifi  Grey  for  testimony.  She  is  no  longer 
the  Honorable  Fifi.  Quite  the  reverse.  I  had  her 
pointed  out  to  me  last  summer  (she  is  Lady  Khorset 
now),  and  my  informant  wriggled  with  pleasure  and 
said,  "Now,  there  is  somebody." 

8 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

"You  mean  that  slim  hedge-fence  in  lavender?"  I 
asked. 

"By  jove,  yes!"  said  he.  "That's  Lady  Khorset, 
the  wickedest  woman  in  London,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  Lady  Virginia  Pure — the  Bicyclyste,  you 
know." 

I  did  know.  Had  I  not  that  very  morning  seen  in  a 
Piccadilly  window  a  photograph  of  almost  all  of  her? 

Fortunately  for  Fitzhugh  Williams's  health  and 
sanity,  little  children  are  pretty  much  the  same  all 
the  world  over,  dwelling  in  the  noble  democracy  of 
mumps,  measles,  and  whooping-cough.  Little  news 
boys,  tiny  grandees,  infinitesimal  sons  of  coachmen, 
picayune  archdukes,  honorableines,  marquisettes,  they 
are  all  pretty  much  alike  under  their  skins.  And  so 
are  their  sisters.  Naturally  your  free-born  American 
child  despises  a  nation  that  does  not  fight  with  its  fists. 
But  he  changes  his  mind  when  some  lusty  French  child 
of  his  own  size  has  given  him  a  good  beating  in  fair 
fight.  And  the  English  games  have  their  beauties 
(I  dare  say),  and  we  do  know  that  they  can  fight — 
or  can  make  the  Irish  and  the  Scots  fight  for  them, 
which  is  just  as  good.  And  it  isn't  race  and  blue  blood 
that  keeps  little  Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere's  stockings 
from  coming  down.  It's  garters.  And  they  don't 
always  do  it.  Point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  little  Archi 
bald  Jamison  Purdue  Fitzwilliams  Updyke  Wrenn- 

9 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

feather,  who  will  be  Duke  of  Chepstow  one  day;  for 
only  last  night  his  lordship's  noble  mother  rubbed  his 
hollow  chest  with  goose  grease  and  tied  a  red  flannel 
round  his  neck,  and  this  morning  his  gerfalcon  nose  is 
running,  as  the  British  would  have  run  at  Waterloo  had 
not  "would-to-God-Blucher-would-come"  come  up. 

Peace,  little  bootblack;  others  bite  their  nails.  See 
yonder  night  garment  laid  out  for  the  heir  of  a  kingdom. 
It  is  of  Canton  flannel,  a  plain,  homely  thing,  in  one 
piece,  buttoning  ignominiously  down  the  back,  and 
having  no  apertures  for  the  august  hands  and  feet  to 
come  through.  In  vain  the  little  king-to-be  may  mum 
ble  the  Canton  flannel  with  his  mouth.  He  cannot 
bite  his  royal  nails;  and,  hush!  in  the  next  crib  a  prin 
cess  asleep.  Why  that  cruel,  tight  cap  down  over  her 
ears?  It's  because  she  will  double  them  forward  and 
lie  on  them,  so  that  if  something  isn't  done  about  it 
they  will  stick  straight  out. 

So  Fitzhugh  Williams  was  brought  up  among  and 
by  children,  fashionable  children,  if  you  like.  Snobs, 
many  of  them,  but  children  all  the  same.  Some  good, 
some  bad,  some  rough,  some  gentle,  some  loving  and 
faithful  with  whom  he  is  friends  to  this  day,  some  loving 
and  not  faithful.  The  dangers  that  he  ran  were  not 
from  the  foreign  children  with  whom  he  played,  fought, 
loved,  and  dreamed  dreams;  but  from  foreign  customs, 
foreign  ways  of  doing  things,  foreign  comfort,  foreign 

10 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

take-the-world-easiness,  and  all.  For  they  do  live  well 
abroad;  they  do  have  amusing  things  to  do.  They 
eat  well,  drink  well,  smoke  well,  are  better  waited  on 
than  we  are  and  have  more  time.  So  Fitzhugh  was  in 
danger  of  these  things  which  have  hurt  the  American 
ism  of  more  than  one  American  to  the  death,  but  he 
ran  the  dangerous  gauntlet  and  came  out  at  the  other 
end  unscathed — into  the  open. 

He  could  rattle  off  French  and  German  like  a  native; 
he  could  imitate  an  Englishman's  intonation  to  per 
fection;  and  yet  he  came  to  manhood  with  his  own 
honest  Ohio  accent  untouched.  And  where  had  he 
learned  it  ?  Not  in  Ohio,  surely.  He  had  been  about 
as  much  in  Ohio  as  I  have  in  the  moon.  It  was  in 
his  red  blood,  I  suppose,  to  speak  as  the  men  of  his 
family  spoke — less  so,  for  his  vocabulary  was  bigger, 
but  plainly,  straightly,  honestly,  and  with  some  regard 
for  the  way  in  which  words  are  spelled.  So  speak  the 
men  who  are  the  backbone  of  liberty,  each  with  the 
honest  accent  that  he  is  born  to.  Don't  you  suppose 
that  Washington  himself  held  forth  in  the  molten, 
golden  tones  of  Virginia?  Do  you  think  Adams  said 
bought  and  caught?  He  said  bot  and  cot.  Did  Lin 
coln  use  the  broad  A  at  Gettysburg?  I  think  that 
in  the  words  he  there  spoke  the  A's  were  narrow  as 
heaven's  gate.  I  think  some  of  them  struck  against 
the  base  of  his  nose  before  they  came  out  to  strengthen 

11 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

the  hearts  of  men,  to  rejoice  God,  and  to  thunder  for 
ever  down  the  ages. 

It  is,  of  course,  more  elegant  to  speak  as  we  New 
Yorkers  do.  Everybody  knows  that.  And  I  should 
advise  all  men  to  cultivate  the  accent  and  intonation 
— all  men  who  are  at  leisure  to  perfect  themselves. 
But  honesty  compels  me  to  state  that  there  has  never 
been  a  truly  great  American  who  spoke  any  speech 
but  his  own — except  that  superlatively  great  Phila- 
delphian,  Benjamin  Franklin — of  Boston.  He  didn't 
talk  Philadelphianese.  And  you  may  cotton  to  that! 


II 

We  must  go  back  to  the  Fourth  of  July.  When 
Benton  returned  with  the  French  clothes  Fitzhugh 
Williams  rose  from  his  downy  couch  and  bathed  in  cold 
water.  He  was  even  an  eager  bather  in  France,  re 
joicing  in  the  feeling  of  superiority  and  stoicism  which 
accompanied  the  pang  and  pain  of  it.  But  in  England, 
where  everybody  bathed — or  at  any  rate  had  water  in 
their  rooms  and  splashed  and  said  ah!  ah!  and  oh!  oh! 
— he  regarded  the  morning  bath  as  commonplace,  and 
had  often  to  be  bribed  into  it. 

He  now  had  Benton  in  to  rub  his  back  dry,  and  to 
hand  him  his  clothes  in  sequence;  it  being  his  mother's 
notion  that  to  be  truly  polite  a  man  must  be  helpless  in 

12 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

these  matters  and  dependent.  And  when  he  had  on  his 
undershirt  and  his  outer  shirt  and  his  stockings,  he 
sat  down  to  his  breakfast  of  chocolate  and  rolls  and 
Rillet  de  Tours,  which  the  butler  had  just  brought; 
and  afterward  brushed  his  teeth,  finished  dressing,  and 
ordered  Benton  to  call  a  fiacre.  But  finding  his  moth 
er's  victoria  at  the  door  he  dismissed  the  hack,  and 
talked  stable  matters  with  Cunningham,  the  coach 
man,  and  Fontenoy,  the  tiger,  until  his  mother  came 
— one  of  these  lovely,  trailing  visions  that  are  rare 
even  in  Paris,  though  common  enough,  I  dare  say,  in 
paradise. 

They  drove  first  of  all  to  Gaston  Rennette's  gallery, 
where  Fitz  celebrated  the  glorious  Fourth  with  a  real 
duelling  pistol  and  real  bullets,  aiming  at  a  life-size 
sheet-iron  man,  who,  like  a  correct,  courteous,  and 
courageous  opponent,  never  moved.  And  all  the  way 
to  the  gallery  and  all  the  way  back  there  was  here  and 
there  an  American  flag,  as  is  customary  in  Paris  on  the 
Fourth.  And  to  these  Fitz,  standing  up  in  the  victoria, 
dipped  and  waved  his  hat.  While  he  was  shooting,  his 
mother  took  a  "little  turn"  and  then  came  back  to 
fetch  him;  a  stout  man  in  a  blue  blouse  accompanying 
him  to  the  curb,  tossing  his  hands  heavenward,  rolling 
up  his  eyes,  and  explaining  to  madame  what  a  "genius 
at  the  shoot  was  the  little  mister,"  and  had  averaged 
upon  the  " mister  of  iron  "  one  " fatal  blow"  in  every  five. 

13 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

Madame  "invited"  the  stout  man  to  a  five-franc  piece 
for  himself  and  she  smiled,  and  he  smiled,  and  bowed 
off  backward  directly  into  a  passing  pedestrian,  who 
cried  out  upon  the  "sacred  name  of  a  rooster."  And 
everybody  laughed,  including  Cunningham,  whose  face 
from  much  shaving  looked  as  if  a  laugh  must  crack  it; 
and  so  the  glorious  Fourth  was  begun. 

But  the  next  event  upon  the  programme  was  less  pro 
vocative  of  pure  joy  in  the  heart  of  Fitz. 

"You  don't  remember  the  Burtons,  do  you,  Fitz?" 
asked  his  mother. 

"No,"  said  he. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "Mrs.  Burton  was  a  school-mate  of 
mine,  Elizabeth  Proctor,  and  I've  just  learned  that  she 
is  at  the  d'Orient  with  her  daughter.  The  father  died, 
you  know " 

"I  know  now"  interrupted  Fitz  with  a  grin. 

He  liked  to  correct  his  mother's  English  habit  of 
"  you-knowing "  people  who  didn't  know. 

"And  I  really  think  I  must  call  and  try  to  do  some 
thing  for  them." 

"The  d'Orient,"  said  Fitz,  "is  where  they  have  the 
elevator  that  you  work  yourself.  Billy  Molineux  and  I 
got  caught  in  it  between  the  third  and  fourth  floors." 

"Well,"  said  his  mother,  "would  you  mind  very 
much  if  we  drove  to  the  d'Orient  now  and  called  on  the 
Burtons?" 

14 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

Fitz  said  that  he  would  mind  very  much,  but  as  he 
made  no  more  reasonable  objection  Mrs.  Williams 
gave  the  order  to  Cunningham,  and  not  long  after  they 
stopped  before  the  d'Orient  in  the  Rue  Daunou,  and 
Fontenoy  flashed  in  with  Mrs.  and  Master  Williams's 
cards,  and  came  out  after  an  interval  and  stationed 
himself  stiffly  near  the  step  of  the  victoria.  This 
meant  that  Mrs.  Burton  was  at  home,  as  we  say,  or, 
"at  herself,"  as  the  French  have  it.  If  he  had  leaped 
nimbly  to  his  seat  beside  Cunningham  on  the  box  it 
would  have  meant  that  Mrs.  Burton  was  not  "at 
herself." 

So  once  more  Mrs.  Williams  became  a  lovely,  trailing 
figure  out  of  the  seventh  heaven,  and  Fitz,  stoical  but 
bored,  followed  her  into  the  court-yard  of  the  hotel. 
Here  were  little  iron  tables  and  chairs,  four  symmetrical 
flower-beds  containing  white  gravel,  four  palm-trees  in 
tubs,  their  leaves  much  speckled  with  coal  smuts;  a 
French  family  at  breakfast  (the  stout  father  had  un 
buttoned  his  white  waistcoat);  and  in  a  corner  by 
herself  an  American  child  sitting  upon  one  of  the  puff- 
seated  iron  chairs,  one  leg  under  her,  one  leg,  long, 
thin,  and  black,  swinging  free,  and  across  her  lap  a 
copy  of  a  fashion  paper. 

On  perceiving  Mrs.  Williams  the  child  at  once  came 
forward,  and  dropped  the  most  charming  little  courtesy 
imaginable. 

15 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said.  "Poor,  dear  mamma 
isn't  a  bit  well.  But  I  said  that  she  would  see  you, 
Mrs.  Williams.  She  said  yesterday  that  she  wanted  so 
much  to  see  you." 

In  the  event  Mrs.  Williams  went  up  three  flights 
in  the  elevator  that  you  worked  yourself;  only  on  this 
occasion  the  proprietor,  hastily  slipping  into  his  frock- 
coat  and  high  hat  (you  could  see  him  at  it  through  the 
office  window),  worked  it  for  her.  And  Fitz  remained 
with  the  gloomy  prospect  of  being  entertained  by  little 
Miss  Burton. 

She  was  younger  than  Fitz  by  two  years  and  older 
by  ten — a  serene,  knowing,  beautiful  child.  When  Fitz 
proposed  that  they  sit  in  the  victoria,  as  softer  than  the 
iron  chairs,  she  called  him  a  funny  boy,  but  she  as 
sented.  And  as  they  went  she  tossed  aside  her  fashion 
paper,  remarking,  "  You  wouldn't  care  for  that." 

When  they  had  settled  down  into  the  soft,  leather 
cushions  of  the  victoria  she  sighed  luxuriously  and  said: 

"This  is  nice!     I  wish — "  and  broke  off  short. 

"What?"  asked  Fitz. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "that  the  horses  would  start,  and 
take  us  all  over  Paris  and  back,  and  everybody  would 
see  us  go  by,  and  envy  us.  But  mamma  and  I,"  she 
said,  "are  devoted  to  fiacres — not  smart,  are  they?" 

"I  don't  mind,"  said  Fitz,  "if  they  go  where  I  tell  'em 
to,  and  don't  set  up  a  row  over  the  pourboire." 

16 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

"Still,"  said  she,  "it  must  be  nice  to  have  carriages 
and  things.  We  used  to  have.  Only  I  can  hardly 
remember.  Mamma  says  I  have  a  dreadfully  short 
memory." 

"How  long  have  you  been  abroad?"  Fitz  asked. 

"Dear  me,"  she  said,  "ever  so  long.  I  don't  re 
member." 

"Won't  it  be  fun,"  said  Fitz,  "to  go  home?" 

"America?"  She  hesitated.  "Mamma  says  it's  all 
so  crude  and  rude.  I  forget." 

"Don't  you  remember  America!"  exclaimed  Fitz, 
much  horrified. 

"Not  clearly,"  she  admitted. 

"I  guess  you  never  saw  Cleveland,  Ohio,  then," 
said  Fitz,  "V  Euclid  Avenue,  V  Wade  Park,  V  the 
cannons  in  the  square,  'n*  the  breakwater,  V  never 
eat  Silverthorn's  potatoes  at  Rocky  River,  'nj  never 
went  to  a  picnic  at  Tinker's  Creek,  'n'  never  saw  Little 
Mountain  V  the  viaduct." 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  little  Miss  Burton,  "I 
never  did." 

"  When  I  grow  up,"  said  Fitz  in  a  glow  of  enthusiasm, 
"I'm  going  to  live  in  America  V  have  a  tower  on  my 
house  with  a  flagpole,  V  a  cannon  to  let  off  every  sunset 
and  sunrise." 

"I  shouldn't  like  that,"  said  she,  "if  I  were  sleeping 
in  the  house  at  the  time." 

17 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

"I  shouldn't  be  sleeping,"  said  Fitz;  "I'd  be  up  early 
every  morning  to  let  the  cannon  off." 

"I  remember  Newport  a  little,"  she  said.  "I'd  live 
there  if  I  were  you.  Newport  is  very  smart  for  Amer 
ica,  mamma  says.  We're  going  to  Newport  when  I 
grow  up.  I'm  sure  it  will  be  nicer  if  you  are 
there." 

Fitz  thought  this  very  likely,  but  was  too  modest  to 
say  so. 

"If  I  ever  go  to  Newport,"  he  said,  "it  will  be  as 
captain  of  a  cup  defender." 

"I  heard  your  mother  call  you  Fitz,"  said  little  Miss 
Burton.  "Is  that  your  name,  or  do  you  have  them?" 

"F-i-t-z-h-u-g-h,"  said  Fitz,  "is  my  name." 

"Any  middle  name?" 

"No." 

"That's  smarter,"  said  she.     "I  haven't  either." 

"What  is  your  name?"  asked  Fitz,  trying  to  feign 
interest. 

"Evelyn,"  said  she,  "but  my  intimate  friends  call  me 
Eve." 

"Huh!"  said  Fitz  grossly,  "Eve  ate  the  apple  first." 

"Yes,"  sighed  Eve,  "  and  gave  Adam  the  core.  Now 
adays,  I  heard  mamma  say  to  Count  Grassi,  it's  the 
other  way  'round." 

"My  father  says,"  said  Fitz,  "that  Eve  ought  to  of 
been  spanked." 

18 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

Certain  memories  reddened  Eve;  but  the  natural 
curiosity  to  compare  experiences  got  the  better  of  her 
maiden  reticence  upon  so  delicate  a  subject.  She  low 
ered  her  voice. 

"Do  you  yell?"  she  asked.  "I  do.  It  frightens 
them  if  you  yell." 

"I  was  never  spanked"  said  Fitz.  "When  I'm 
naughty  mamma  writes  to  papa,  and  he  writes  to  me, 
and  says  he's  sorry  to  hear  that  I  haven't  yet  learned 
to  be  a  gentleman,  and  a  man  of  the  world,  and  an 
American.  That's  worse  than  being  spanked." 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Eve,  "I  don't  mind  what  people 
say;  that's  just  water  on  a  duck's  back;  but  what  they 
do  is  with  slippers " 

"And,"  cried  Fitz,  elated  with  his  own  humor,  "it 
isn't  on  the  duck's — back." 

"Are  you  yourself  to-day,"  asked  Miss  Eve,  her  eyes 
rilling,  "or  are  you  just  unusually  horrid?" 

"Here — I  say — don't  blub,"  said  Fitz,  in  real  alarm. 
And,  knowing  the  power  of  money  to  soothe,  he  pulled 
a  twenty-franc  gold  piece  from  his  pocket  and  himself 
opened  and  closed  one  of  her  tiny  hands  upon  it. 

The  child's  easy  tears  dried  at  once. 

"Really— truly?— ought  I?"  she  exclaimed. 

"You  bet!"  said  Fitz,  all  his  beautiful  foreign  cult 
ure  to  the  fore.  "You  just  keep  that  and  surprise  your 
self  with  a  present  next  time  you  want  one." 

19 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

"Maybe  mamma  won't  like  me  to,"  she  doubted. 
And  then,  with  devilish  wisdom,  "I  think  mamma  will 
scold  me  first — and  let  me  forget  to  give  it  back  after 
ward.  Thank  you,  Fitz.  I  could  kiss  youl" 

"Fire  away,"  said  Fitz  sullenly.  He  was  used  to 
little  girls,  and  liked  to  kiss  them,  but  he  did  not  like 
them  to  kiss  him.  She  didn't,  however. 

She  caught  his  hand  with  the  one  of  hers  that  was  not 
clutching  the  gold  piece,  and  squeezed  it  quickly  and 
let  it  go.  Something  in  this  must  have  touched  and 
made  appeal  to  the  manly  heart.  For  Fitz  said,  avert 
ing  his  beautiful  eyes: 

"You're  a  funny  little  pill,  aren't  you?" 

The  tiger  sprang  to  the  victoria  step  from  loafing  in 
front  of  a  jeweller's  window,  and  stiffened  into  a  statue 
of  himself.  Madame  was  coming. 

"Take  Evelyn  to  the  lift,  Fitz,"  said  she.  But  first 
she  kissed  Evelyn,  and  said  that  she  was  going  to  send 
for  her  soon,  for  a  spree  with  Fitz. 

They  passed  through  the  court-yard,  Fitz  carrying 
his  hat  like  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
into  the  dark  passage  that  led  to  the  famous  elevator. 

"Your  mother's  smart,"  said  Eve. 

"Can't  you  think  of  anything  but  how  smart  people 
are?" 

"When  I'm  grown  up,"  she  said,  "and  am  smart 
myself  I'll  think  of  other  things,  I  dare  say." 

20 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

"Can  you  work  the  lift  yourself?  Hadn't  I  better 
take  you  up  ?  " 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand. 

They  shook,  she  firmly,  he  with  the  flabby,  diffident 
clasp  of  childhood  and  old  age. 

"You're  a  funny  kid,"  said  Fitz. 

"You're  rather  a  dear,"  said  Eve. 

She  entered  the  elevator,  closed  the  door,  and  disap 
peared  upward,  at  the  pace  of  a  very  footsore  and  weary 
snail. 

Mrs.  Burton  was  much  cheered  by  Mrs.  Williams's 
visit,  as  who  that  struggles  is  not  by  the  notice  of  the 
rich  and  the  mighty  ? 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  when  Eve  entered,  "she  is  so 
charming,  so  natural;  she  has  promised  to  give  a  tea  for 
me,  and  to  present  me  to  some  of  her  friends.  I  hope 
you  like  the  boy — Fitz — Fritz — whatever  his  name  is. 
It  would  be  so  nice  if  you  were  to  be  friends." 

"He  is  nice,"  said  Eve,  "ever  so  nice — but  so  dull." 

"What  did  you  talk  about?"  asked  Mrs.  Burton. 

"Really,"  said  Eve,  aged  seven,  "I  forget." 


21 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

III 

Mrs.  Burton  had  made  a  failure  of  her  own  life. 

She  had  married  a  man  who  subsequently  had  been 
so  foolish  as  to  lose  his  money — or  most  of  it. 

Eve,  who  had  ever  a  short  memory,  does  not  remem 
ber  the  catastrophe.  She  was  three  at  the  time  of  it. 
She  was  in  the  nursery  when  the  blow  fell,  and  pres 
ently  her  mother  came  in  looking  very  distracted  and 
wild,  and  caught  the  little  girl's  face  between  her 
hands,  and  looked  into  it,  and  turned  it  this  way  and 
that,  and  passed  the  little  girl's  beautiful  brown  hair 
through  her  fingers,  and  then  began  to  speak  violently. 

"You  sha'n't  be  shabby,"  she  said.  "I  will  make  a 
great  beauty  of  you.  You've  got  the  beauty.  You  shall 
ride  in  your  carriage,  even  if  I  work  my  hands  to  the 
bone.  They've  bowled  me  over.  But  I'm  not  dead 
yet.  Elizabeth  Burton  shall  have  her  day.  You  wait. 
I'll  make  the  world  dance  for  you."  Then  she  went 
into  violent  hysterics. 

There  was  a  little  money  left.  Mrs.  Burton  took 
Evelyn  to  Europe,  and  began  to  teach  her  the  long 
litany  of  success: 

Money  is  God; 
We  praise  thee,  etc., 

a  very  long,  somewhat  truthful,  and  truly  degraded 
litany.     She  taught  her  that  it  isn't  handsome  is  as 

22 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

handsome  does,  but  the  boots  and  shoes,  after  all. 
She  taught  her  that  a  girl  must  dress  beautifully  to  be 
beautiful,  that  she  must  learn  all  the  world's  ways 
and  secrets,  and  at  the  same  time  appear  in  speech  and 
manner  like  a  child  of  Nature,  like  a  newly  opened 
rose.  And  she  taught  her  to  love  her  country  like  this: 

"America,  my  dear,  is  the  one  place  where  a  girl  can 
marry  enough  money  to  live  somewhere  else.  Or,  if 
her  husband  is  tied  to  his  affairs,  it  is  the  one  place 
where  she  can  get  the  most  for  his  money — not  as  we 
get  the  most  for  ours,  for  we  couldn't  live  two  min 
utes  on  our  income  in  America — but  where  the  most 
people  will  bow  the  lowest  to  her  because  she  is 
rich;  where  she  will  be  the  most  courted  and  the  most 
envied." 

The  two  mammas  worked  along  similar  lines,  but 
for  different  reasons.  Mrs.  Burton  strove  to  make  Eve 
ornamental  so  that  she  might  acquire  millions;  Mrs. 
Williams  strove  to  Anglicize  and  Europeanize  her  son  so 
that  he  might  ornament  those  which  were  already  his. 
Those  little  spread  eagles,  the  corpuscles  in  his  blood, 
folded  their  wings  a  trifle  as  he  grew  older,  and  weren't 
always  so  ready  to  scream  and  boast;  but  they  remained 
eagles,  and  no  amount  of  Eton  and  Oxford  could  turn 
them  into  little  unicorns  or  lions.  You  may  wonder 
why  Fitz's  father,  a  strong,  sane  man,  permitted  such 
attempts  at  denationalization  upon  his  son  and  heir. 

23 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

Fitz   so   wondered — once.     So   wrote.     And   was   an 
swered  thus: 

...  If  you're  any  good  it  will  all  come  out  in  the  wash.  If 
you  aren't  any  good  it  doesn't  matter  whether  your  mother  makes 
an  Englishman  out  of  you  or  a  Mandarin.  When  you  come  of 
age  you'll  be  your  own  man;  that's  been  the  bargain  between 
your  mother  and  me.  That  will  be  the  time  for  you  to  decide 
whether  to  be  governed  or  to  help  govern.  I  am  not  afraid 
for  you.  I  never  have  been. 

So  Mrs.  Williams  was  not  successful  on  the  whole 
in  her  attempts  to  make  a  cosmopolitan  of  Fitz.  And 
that  was  just  enough,  because  the  attempts  were  those 
of  an  amateur.  She  had  lived  a  furiously  active  life 
of  pleasure;  she  had  made  an  unassailable  place  for 
herself  in  the  best  European  society,  as  at  home.  She 
had  not  even  become  estranged  from  her  husband. 
They  were  always  crossing  the  ocean  to  see  each  other, 
"if  only  for  a  minute  or  two,"  as  she  used  to  say,  and 
when  Fitz  was  at  school  she  spent  much  of  her  time  in 
America;  and  Fitz's  short  vacations  were  wild  sprees 
with  his  father  and  mother,  come  over  for  the  purpose. 
Mr.  Williams  would  take  an  immense  country  house  for 
a  few  weeks,  with  shooting  and  riding  and  all  sorts  of 
games  thrown  in,  and  have  Fitz's  friends  by  the  dozen. 
But,  like  as  not,  Mr.  Williams  would  leave  in  the 
middle  of  it,  as  fast  as  trains  and  steamers  could  carry 
him,  home  to  his  affairs.  And  even  the  little  English 

24 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

boys  missed  him  sorely,  since  he  was  much  kinder  to 
them,  as  a  rule,  than  their  own  fathers  were,  and  had 
always  too  many  sovereigns  in  his  pocket  for  his  own 
comfort. 

But  Mrs.  Burton's  attempts  to  make  a  charming 
cosmopolitan  of  Eve  met  with  the  greater  success  that 
they  deserved.  They  were  the  efforts  of  a  professional, 
one  who  had  staked  life  or  death,  so  to  speak,  on  the 
result.  Where  Mrs.  Williams  amused  herself  and 
achieved  small  victories,  Mrs.  Burton  fought  and 
achieved  great  conquests.  She  saved  money  out  of  her 
thin  income,  money  for  the  great  days  to  come  when 
Eve  was  to  be  presented  to  society  at  Newport;  and  she 
slaved  and  toiled  grimly  and  with  far-seeing  genius. 
Eve's  speaking  voice  was,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Burton's  and 
her  own  greatest  triumph.  It  was  Ellen  Terry's  young 
est,  freshest  voice  over  again,  but  with  the  na'ivest  little 
ghost  of  a  French  accent;  and  she  didn't  seem  so  much 
to  project  a  phrase  at  you  by  the  locutory  muscles  as  to 
smile  it  to  you. 

Mrs.  Burton  had,  of  course,  her  moments  of  despair 
about  Eve.  But  these  were  mostly  confined  to  that 
despairing  period  when  most  girls  are  nothing  but  arms 
and  wrists  and  gawkiness  and  shyness;  when  their 
clear,  bright  complexions  turn  muddy,  and  they  want 
to  enter  convents.  Eve  at  this  period  in  her  life  was 
unusually  trying  and  nondescript.  She  announced  that 

25 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

if  she  ever  married  it  would  be  for  love  alone,  but  that 
she  did  not  intend  to  marry.  She  would  train  to  be  a 
cholera  nurse  or  a  bubonic  plague  nurse — anything, 
in  short,  that  was  most  calculated  to  drive  poor  Mrs. 
Burton  frantic.  And  she  grew  the  longest,  thinnest 
pair  of  legs  and  arms  in  Europe;  and  her  hair  seemed 
to  lose  its  wonderful  lustre;  and  her  skin,  upon  which 
Mrs.  Burton  had  banked  so  much,  became  colorless 
and  opaque  and  a  little  blotched  around  the  chin.  And 
she  was  so  nervous  and  overgrown  that  she  would 
throw  you  a  whole  fit  of  hysterics  during  piano  lessons; 
and  she  prayed  so  long  night  and  morning  that  her 
bony  knees  developed  callouses;  and  when  she  didn't 
have  a  cold  in  her  head  she  was  getting  over  one  or 
catching  another. 

During  this  period  in  Eve's  life  the  children  met  for 
the  second  time.  It  was  in  Vienna.  This  time  Mrs. 
Burton,  as  having  been  longer  in  residence,  called  upon 
Mrs.  Williams,  taking  Eve  with  her,  after  hesitation. 
Poor  Eve!  The  graceful,  gracious  courtesy  of  her  baby 
hood  was  now  a  performance  of  which  a  stork  must 
have  felt  ashamed;  she  pitched  into  a  table  (while  try 
ing  to  make  herself  small)  and  sent  a  pitcher  of  lemon 
ade  crashing  to  the  ground.  And  then  burst  into  tears 
that  threatened  to  become  laughter  mixed  with  howls. 

At  this  moment  Fitz,  having  been  sent  for  to  "do 
the  polite,"  entered.  He  shook  hands  at  once  with 

26 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

Mrs.  Burton,  whom  he  had  never  seen  before,  and 
turned  to  see  how  Eve,  whom  he  vaguely  remembered, 
was  coming  on.  And  there  she  was — nothing  left  of 
his  vague  memory  but  the  immense  eyes.  Even  these 
were  not  clear  and  bright,  but  red  in  the  whites  and 
disordered  with  tears.  For  the  rest  (Fitz  made  the 
mental  comparison  himself)  she  reminded  him  of  a  silly 
baby  camel  that  he  had  seen  in  the  zoo,  that  had  six 
inches  of  body,  six  feet  of  legs,  and  the  most  bashful 
expression  imaginable. 

Mrs.  Burton,  you  may  be  sure,  did  not  lose  the 
start  that  Fitz  gave  before  he  went  forward  and  shook 
hands  with  Eve.  But  she  misinterpreted  it.  She  said 
to  herself  (all  the  while  saying  other  things  aloud  to 
Mrs.  Williams):  "If  he  had  only  seen  her  a  year  ago, 
even  a  boy  of  his  age  would  have  been  struck  by  her, 
and  would  have  remembered  her.  But  now!  Now, 
he'll  never  forget  her.  And  I  don't  blame  him.  She's 
so  ugly  that  he  was  frightened." 

But  that  was  not  why  Fitz  had  started.  The  poor, 
gawky,  long-legged,  tearful,  frightened,  overgrown, 
wretched  girl  had  not  struck  him  as  ugly;  she  had  struck 
him  as  the  most  pathetic  and  to-be-pitied  object  that 
he  had  ever  seen.  I  do  not  account  for  this.  I  state  it. 
Had  she  been  pretty  and  self-possessed  he  would  have 
left  the  room  presently  on  some  excuse,  but  now  he 
stayed — not  attracted,  but  troubled  and  sorry  and 

27 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

eager  to  put  her  at  her  ease.  So  he  would  have  turned 
aside  to  help  a  gutter  cat  that  had  been  run  over  and 
hurt,  though  he  would  have  passed  the  proudest, 
fluffiest  Angora  in  Christendom  with  no  more  than  a 
glance.  He  began  to  talk  to  her  in  his  plainest,  straight- 
est,  honestest  Ohioan.  It  always  came  out  strongest 
when  he  was  most  moved.  His  mother's  sharp  ears 
heard  the  A's,  how  they  narrowed  in  his  mouth,  and 
smote  every  now  and  then  with  a  homely  tang  against 
the  base  of  his  nose.  "Just  like  his  father,"  she 
thought,  "when  some  one's  in  trouble."  And  she  had 
a  sudden  twinge  of  nostalgia. 

Fitz  lured  Eve  to  a  far  corner  and  showed  her  a  set 
of  wonderful  carved  chess-men  that  he  had  bought  that 
morning;  and  photographs  of  his  friends  at  Eton,  and 
of  the  school,  and  of  some  of  the  masters.  He  talked 
very  earnestly  and  elaborately  about  these  dull  matters, 
and  passed  by  the  opportunities  which  her  first  em 
barrassed  replies  offered  for  the  repartee  of  youth. 
And  he  who  was  most  impatient  of  restraint  and  simple 
occupations  talked  and  behaved  like  a  dull,  simple, 
kindly  old  gentleman.  His  method  may  not  have  left 
Eve  with  a  dazzling  impression  of  him;  she  could  not 
know  that  he  was  not  himself,  but  all  at  once  a  deliberate 
artist  seeking  to  soothe  and  to  make  easy. 

Eve  did  not  enjoy  that  call;  she  enjoyed  nothing  in 
those  days  but  prayer  and  despair;  but  she  got  to  the 

28 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

end  of  it  without  any  more  tears  and  crashes.  And 
she  said  to  her  mother  afterward  that  young  Williams 
seemed  a  nice  boy — but  so  dull.  Well,  they  were  quits. 
She  had  seemed  dull  enough  to  Fitz.  A  sick  cat  may 
touch  your  heart,  but  does  not  furnish  you  with  lively 
companionship.  Fitz  was  heartily  glad  when  the  Bur 
tons  had  gone.  He  had  worked  very  hard  to  make 
things  possible  for  that  absurd  baby  camel. 

"You  may  call  her  an  absurd  baby  camel,"  said  his 
mother,  "but  it's  my  opinion  that  she  is  going  to  be  a 
very  great  beauty." 

"She!"  exclaimed  Fitz,  thinking  that  the  ugliness  of 
Eve  might  have  unhinged  his  mother's  beauty-loving 
mind. 

"Oh,"  said  his  mother,  "she's  at  an  age  now — poor 

child!  But  don't  you  remember  how  the  bones  of  her 
t  " 

"I  am  trying  to  forget,"  said  Fitz  with  a  tremendous 
shudder  for  the  occasion. 


IV 

Fitz  did  not  take  a  degree  at  Oxford.  He  left  in  the 
middle  of  his  last  term,  leaving  many  friends  behind. 
He  stood  well,  and  had  been  in  no  especial  difficulty 
of  mischief,  and  why  he  left  was  a  mystery.  The  truth 
of  the  matter  is  that  he  had  been  planning  for  ten  years 

29 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

to  leave  Oxford  in  the  very  middle  of  his  last  term. 
For  upon  that  date  fell  his  twenty-first  birthday,  when 
he  was  to  be  his  own  man.  He  spent  a  few  hours  in  his 
mother's  house  in  London.  And,  of  course,  she  tried 
to  make  him  go  back  and  finish,  and  was  very  much 
upset,  for  her.  But  Fitz  was  obdurate. 

"If  it  were  Yale,  or  Princeton,  or  Harvard,  or  Berke 
ley,  or  Squedunk,"  he  said,  "I  would  stick  it  out. 
But  a  degree  from  Oxford  isn't  worth  six  weeks  of 
home." 

"But  aren't  you  going  to  wait  till  I  can  go  with  you  ?" 

"If  you'll  go  with  me  to-night  you  shall  have  my 
state-room,  and  I'll  sleep  on  the  coal.  But  if  you  can't 
go  till  to-morrow,  mother  mine,  I  will  not  wait.  I  have 
cabled  my  father,"  said  he, "  to  meet  me  at  quarantine." 

"Your  poor,  busy  father,"  she  said,  "will  hardly  feel 
like  running  on  from  Cleveland  to  meet  a  boy  who  is 
coming  home  without  a  degree." 

"My  father,"  said  Fitz,  "will  be  at  quarantine.  •  He 
will  come  out  in  a  tug.  And  he  will  arrange  to  take  me 
off  and  put  me  ashore  before  the  others.  If  the  ship 
is  anywhere  near  on  schedule  my  father  and  I  will  be 
in  time  to  see  a  ball  game  at  the  Polo  Grounds." 

Something  in  the  young  man's  honest  face  and  voice 
aroused  an  answering  enthusiasm  in  his  mother's 
heart. 

"Oh,  Fitz,"  she  said,  "if  I  could  possibly  manage  it  I 
30 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

would  go  with  you.  Tell  your  father  that  I  am  sailing 
next  week.  I  won't  cable.  Perhaps  he'll  be  surprised 
and  pleased." 

"I  know  he  will,"  said  Fitz,  and  he  folded  his  mother 
in  his  arms  and  rumpled  her  hair  on  one  side  and  then 
on  the  other. 

Those  who  beheld,  and  who,  because  of  the  wealth  of 
the  principal  personages,  took  notice  of  the  meeting 
between  Fitz  and  his  father,  say  that  Fitz  touched  his 
father's  cheek  with  his  lips  as  naturally  and  unaffect 
edly  as  if  he  had  been  three  years  old,  that  a  handshake 
between  the  two  men  accompanied  this  salute,  and 
that  Williams  senior  was  heard  to  remark  that  it  had 
looked  like  rain  early  in  the  morning,  but  that  now  it 
didn't,  and  that  he  had  a  couple  of  seats  for  the  ball 
game.  What  he  really  said  was  inside,  neither  audible 
nor  visible  upon  his  smooth-shaven,  care-wrinkled  face. 
It  was  an  outcry  of  the  heart,  so  joyous  as  to  resemble 
grief. 

There  was  a  young  and  pretty  widow  on  that  ship 
who  had  made  much  of  Fitz  on  the  way  out  and  had 
pretended  that  she  understood  him.  She  thought  that 
she  had  made  an  impression,  and  that,  whatever  hap 
pened,  he  would  not  forget  her.  But  when  he  rushed 
up,  his  face  all  joyous,  to  say  good-by,  her  heart  sank. 
And  she  told  her  friends  afterward  that  there  was  a 

31 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

certain  irresistible,  orphan-like  appeal  about  that  young 
Williams,  and  that  she  had  felt  like  a  mother  toward 
him.  But  this  was  not  till  very  much  later.  At  first 
she  used  to  shut  herself  up  in  her  room  and  cry  her 
eyes  out. 

They  lunched  at  an  uptown  hotel  and  afterward, 
smoking  big  cigars,  they  drove  to  a  hatter's  and  bought 
straw  hats,  being  very  critical  of  each  other's  fit  and 
choice. 

Then  they  hurried  up  to  the  Polo  Grounds,  and  when 
it  began  to  get  exciting  in  the  fifth  inning,  Fitz  felt 
his  father  pressing  something  into  his  hand.  Without 
taking  his  eyes  from  Wagsniff,  who  was  at  the  bat,  Fitz 
put  that  something  into  his  mouth  and  began  to  chew. 
The  two  brothers — for  that  is  the  high  relationship 
achieved  sometimes  in  America,  and  in  America  alone, 
between  father  and  son — thrust  their  new  straw  hats 
upon  the  backs  of  their  round  heads,  humped  them 
selves  forward,  and  rested  with  their  elbows  on  their 
knees  and  watched — no,  that  is  your  foreigner's  atti 
tude  toward  a  contest — they  played  the  game. 

I  cannot  leave  them  thus  without  telling  the  reader 
that  they  survived  the  almost  fatal  ninth,  when,  with  the 
score  3-2  against,  two  out  and  a  man  on  first,  Wag- 
sniff  came  once  more  to  the  bat  and,  swinging  cun 
ningly  at  the  very  first  ball  pitched  to  him  by  the 
famous  Mr.  Blatherton,  lifted  it  over  the  centrefielder's 

32 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

head  and  trotted  around  the  bases  and,  grinning  like  a 
Hallowe'en  pumpkin,  came  romping  home. 

At  dinner  that  night  Williams  senior  said  suddenly: 

"Fitz,  what  you  do  want  to  do?" 

A  stranger  would  have  thought  that  Fitz  was  being 
asked  to  choose  between  a  theatre  and  a  roof-garden, 
but  Fitz  knew  that  an  entirely  different  question  was 
involved  in  those  casually  spoken  words.  He  was  being 
asked  off-hand  to  state  off-hand  what  he  was  going  to 
do  with  his  young  life.  But  he  had  his  answer  waiting. 

"I  want  to  see  the  world,"  he  said. 

Williams  senior,  as  a  rule,  thought  things  out  in  his 
own  mind  and  did  not  press  for  explanations.  But  on 
the  present  occasion  he  asked: 

"As  how?" 

Fitz  smiled  very  youthfully  and  winningly. 

"I've  seen  some  of  it,"  he  said,  "right  side  up.  Now 
I  want  to  have  a  look  upside-down.  If  I  go  into  some 
thing  of  yours — as  myself — I  don't  get  a  show.  I'm 
marked.  The  other  clerks  would  swipe  to  me,  and  the 
heads  would  credit  me  with  brains  before  I  showed 
whether  I  had  any  or  not.  I  want  you  to  get  me  a  job 
in  Wall  Street — under  any  other  name  than  my  own 
— except  Percy" — they  both  laughed — "your  first  name 
and  mamma's  maiden  name  would  do — James  Holden. 
And  nobody  here  knows  me  by  sight,  I've  been  abroad 
so  much;  and  it  seems  to  me  I'd  get  an  honest  point  of 

33 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

view  and  find  out  if  I  was  any  good  or  not,  and  if  I  could 
get  myself  liked  for  myself  or  not." 

"Well,"  said  his  father;  "well,  that's  an  idea,  any 
how." 

"I've  had  valets  and  carriages  and  luxuries  all  my 
life,"  said  Fitz.  "I  think  I  like  them.  But  I  don't 
know — do  I?  I've  never  tried  the  other  thing.  I'm 
sure  I  don't  want  to  be  an  underpaid  clerk  always. 
But  I  am  sure  I  want  to  try  it  on  for  a  while." 

"I  was  planning,"  said  his  father,  "to  take  a  car 
and  run  about  the  country  with  you  and  show  you 
all  the  different  enterprises  that  I'm  interested  in.  I 
thought  you'd  make  a  choice,  find  something  you  liked, 
and  go  into  it  for  a  starter.  If  you're  any  good  you 
can  go  pretty  far  with  me  pulling  for  you.  You  don't 
like  that  idea?" 

"Not  for  now,"  said  Fitz.     "I  like  mine  better." 

"Do  you  want  to  live  on  what  you  earn?" 

"If  I  can  stand  it." 

"You'll  be  started  with  ten  dollars  a  week,  say.  Can 
you  do  it?" 

"What  did  grandpa  start  on?"  asked  Fitz. 

"His  board,  two  suits  of  clothes,  and  twenty-four 
dollars  a  year,"  said  William  senior  with  a  proud  ring 
in  his  voice. 

"And  you?" 

"  I  began  at  the  bottom,  too.  That  was  the  old-fash- 
34 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

ioned  idea.     Father  was  rich  then.     But  he  wanted  me 
to  show  that  I  was  some  good." 

"Did  grandpa  pull  for  you,  or  did  you  have  to  find 
yourself?" 

"Well,"  said  the  father  diffidently,  "I  had  a  natural 
taste  for  business.  But,"  and  he  smiled  at  his  son,  "I 
shouldn't  live  on  what  you  earn,  if  I  were  you.  You 
needn't  spend  much,  but  have  a  good  time  out  of  hours. 
You'll  find  yourself  working  side  by  side  with  other 
sons  of  rich  men.  And  you  can  bet  your  bottom  dol 
lar  they  don't  live  on  what  they  can  earn.  Unless  you 
make  a  display  of  downright  wealth  you'll  be  judged  on 
your  merits.  That's  what  you're  driving  at,  isn't  it?" 

So  they  compromised  on  that  point;  and  the  next 
morning  they  went  downtown  and  called  upon  Mr. 
Merriman,  the  great  banker.  He  and  Williams  had 
been  in  many  deals  together,  and  on  one  historic  occa 
sion  had  supported  prices  and  loaned  so  much  ready 
money  on  easy  terms  as  to  avert  a  panic. 

"John,"  said  Williams  senior,  "my  son  Fitz." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Merriman,  only  his  eyes  smiling, 
"you  don't  look  like  a  foreigner." 

"I'm  not,"  said  Fitz  stoutly. 

"In  that  case,"  said  Merriman,  "what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

"I  want  to  be  called  James  Holden,"  said  Fitz,  "and 
to  have  a  job  in  your  office." 

35 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

Merriman  listened  to  the  reasons  with  interest  and 
amusement.  Then  he  turned  to  Williams  senior.  "  May 
I  drive  him?"  he  asked  grimly. 

"If  you  can,"  said  Fitz's  father.     And  he  laughed. 

Finally,  it  was  arranged  that,  in  his  own  way,  Fitz 
was  to  see  the  world. 


Fitz's  experiment  in  finding  himself  and  getting  him 
self  liked  for  himself  alone  was  a  great  failure.  He  had 
not  been  in  Mr.  Merriman's  employ  two  hours  before 
he  found  that  he  disliked  long  sums  in  addition,  and 
had  made  friends  with  Wilson  Carrol,  who  worked 
next  to  him.  Indeed,  Fitz  made  friends  with  everybody 
in  the  office  inside  of  two  weeks,  and  was  responsible 
for  a  great  deal  of  whispering  and  hanging  out  of  back 
windows  for  a  puff  of  smoke.  Nobody  but  Mr.  Mer 
riman  knew  who  he  was,  where  he  came  from,  or  what 
his  prospects  were.  Everybody  liked  him — for  him 
self.  Rich  or  poor,  it  must  have  been  the  same.  His 
idea  that  character,  if  he  had  it,  would  tell  in  the  long 
run  proved  erroneous.  It  told  right  away. 

Wilson  Carrol  and  half  a  dozen  other  clerks  in  the 
office  were  the  sons  of  rich  men,  put  to  work  because  of 
the  old-fashioned  idea  that  everybody  ought  to  work,  and 
at  the  same  time  pampered,  according  to  the  modern 
idea,  with  comfortable  allowances  over  and  beyond  their 

36 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

pay.  With  one  or  other  of  these  young  men  for  com 
panion,  and  presently  for  friend,  Fitz  began  to  lead 
the  agreeable  summer  life  of  New  York's  well-to-do 
youth.  He  allowed  himself  enough  money  to  keep  his 
end  up,  but  did  not  allow  himself  any  especial  extrava 
gances  or  luxuries.  He  played  his  part  well,  appearing 
less  well  off  than  Carrol,  and  more  so  than  young  Prout, 
with  whom  he  got  into  much  mischief  in  the  office. 
Whatever  these  young  gentlemen  had  to  spend  they 
were  always  hard  up.  Fitz  did  likewise.  If  you  dined 
gloriously  at  Sherry's  and  had  a  box  at  the  play  you 
made  up  for  it  the  next  night  by  a  chop  at  Smith's  and 
a  cooling  ride  in  a  ferry-boat,  say  to  Staten  Island 
and  back.  Saturday  you  got  off  early  and  went  to  Long 
Island  or  Westchester  for  tennis  and  a  swim,  and 
lived  till  Monday  in  a  luxurious  house  belonging  to 
a  fellow-clerk's  father,  or  were  put  up  at  the  nearest 
country  club. 

Downtown  that  summer  there  was  nothing  exciting 
going  on.  The  market  stood  still  upon  very  small 
transactions,  and  there  was  no  real  work  for  any  one 
but  the  book-keepers.  The  more  Fitz  saw  of  the 
science  of  addition  the  less  he  thought  of  it,  but  he 
did  what  he  had  to  do  (no  more)  and  drew  his  pay 
every  Saturday  with  pride.  Once,  there  being  a  con 
venient  legal  holiday  to  fatten  the  week-end,  he  went 
to  Newport  with  Carrol  and  got  himself  so  much  liked 

37 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

by  all  the  Carrol  family  that  he  received  and  accepted 
an  invitation  to  spend  his  long  holiday  with  them.  He 
and  Carrol  had  arranged  with  the  powers  to  take  their 
two  weeks  off  at  the  same  time — from  the  fifteenth  to 
the  end  of  August.  And  during  business  hours  they 
kept  their  heads  pretty  close  together  and  did  much 
plotting  and  planning  in  whispers. 

But  Mrs.  Carrol  herself  was  to  have  a  finger  in  that 
vacation.  The  presence  in  her  house  of  two  present 
able  young  men  was  an  excellent  excuse  for  paying 
off  dinner  debts  and  giving  a  lawn  party  and  a  ball. 
Even  at  Newport  there  are  never  enough  men  to  go 
round,  and  with  two  whole  ones  for  a  basis  much 
may  be  done.  The  very  night  of  their  arrival  they  "ran 
into"  a  dinner-party,  as  Carrol  expressed  it.  It  was 
a  large  dinner;  and  the  young  men,  having  got  to 
skylarking  over  their  dressing  (contrary  to  Mrs.  Carrol's 
explicit  orders)  descended  to  a  drawing-room  already 
full  of  people.  Carrol  knew  them  all,  even  the  famous 
new  beauty;  but  Fitz — or  James  Holden,  rather — had, 
except  for  the  Carrols,  but  a  nodding  acquaintance 
with  one  or  two  of  the  men.  He  felt  shy,  and  blushed 
very  becomingly  while  trying  to  explain  to  Mrs.  Carrol 
how  he  and  Wilson  happened  to  be  so  unfortunate 
as  to  be  late. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  going  to  punish  you  this 
time.  You  are  to  take  Miss  Burton  in." 

38 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

" Which  is  Miss  Burton?"  asked  Fitz,  on  whose 
memory  at  the  moment  the  name  made  no  impres 
sion. 

"Do  you  see  seven  or  eight  men  in  the  corner,"  she 
said,  "who  look  as  if  they  were  surrounding  a  punch 
bowl?" 

"Miss  Burton  is  the  punch-bowl?"  he  asked. 

"All  those  men  want  to  take  her  in,"  said  Mrs.  Car 
rol,  "and  you're  going  to  make  them  all  very  jealous." 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  Mrs.  Carrol,  with  Fitz 
in  tow,  swept  down  upon  the  group  of  men.  It  parted 
reluctantly  and  disclosed,  lolling  happily  in  a  deep 
chair,  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  the  world.  She  came 
to  her  feet  in  the  quickest,  prettiest  way  imaginable, 
and  spoke  to  Mrs.  Carrol  in  the  young  Ellen  Terry 
voice,  with  its  little  ghost  of  a  French  accent.  Fitz  did 
not  hear  what  she  said  or  what  Mrs.  Carrol  answered. 
He  only  knew  that  his  heart  was  thumping  against 
his  ribs,  and  that  a  moment  later  he  was  being  intro 
duced  as  Mr.  Holden,  and  that  Eve  did  not  know  him 
from  Adam. 

Presently  she  laid  the  tips  of  her  fingers  on  his  arm, 
and  they  were  going  in  to  dinner. 

"I  think  Mrs.  Carrol's  a  dear,"  said  Fitz,  "to  give  me 
you  to  take  in  and  to  sit  next  to.  I  always  wanted 
people  to  like  me,  but  now  all  the  men  hate  me.  I  can 
feel  it  in  the  small  of  my  back,  and  I  like  it.  Do  you 

39 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

know  how  you  feel  in  spring — the  day  the  first  crocuses 
come  out  ?  That's  the  way  it  makes  me  feel." 

She  turned  her  great,  smiling  eyes  upon  him  and 
laughed.  The  laugh  died  away.  His  young,  merry 
face  had  a  grim,  resolved  look.  So  his  father  looked  at 
critical  times. 

"I  thought  you  were  joking — rather  feebly,"  she  said. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  he,  "that  I  shall  ever  joke 
again." 

"You  make  your  mind  up  very  quickly,"  she  said. 

"  The  men  of  my  family  all  do,"  he  said.  "  But  it  isn't 
my  mind  that's  made  up." 

Something  of  the  girl's  stately  and  exquisite  poise 
forsook  her.  Her  eyes  wore  a  hunted  look  for  a  mo 
ment.  She  even  felt  obliged  to  laugh  to  cover  her  con 
fusion. 

"It's  my  heart,"  said  Fitz.  "I  saw  you — and  that  is 
all  there  is  to  it." 

"Aren't  you  in  something  of  a  hurry?"  she  asked, 
her  eyes  twinkling.  She  had  felt  for  a  moment  like 
a  soldier  surprised  without  weapons.  But  now,  once 
more,  she  felt  herself  armed  cap  a  pie. 

"I've  got  to  be,"  said  Fitz.  "I'm  a  bank  clerk  on  a 
two  weeks'  vacation,  of  which  the  first  day  is  gone." 

She  was  sorry  that  he  was  a  bank  clerk;  it  had  a  poor 
and  meagre  sound.  It  was  not  for  him  that  she  had 
been  trained.  She  had  been  made  to  slave  for  herself, 

40 


THE  SPREAD   EAGLE 

and  was  to  make  a  "continental"  marriage  with  the 
highest  bidder.  Eve's  heart  had  been  pretty  well 
schooled  out  of  her,  and  yet,  before  dinner  came  to  an 
end,  she  found  herself  wishing  that  among  the  high 
bidders  might  be  one  very  young,  like  the  man  at  her 
side,  with  eyes  as  honest,  and  who,  to  express  admira 
tion,  beat  about  no  bushes. 

Later,  when  they  said  good-by,  Fitz  said: 

"It  would  be  good  for  me  to  see  you  to-morrow." 

And  she  said: 

"Would  it  be  good  for  me?"  and  laughed. 

"Yes,"  he  said  firmly,  "it  would." 

"Why?"  she  asked. 

"To-morrow  at  four,"  said  Fitz,  "I  shall  come  for 
you  and  take  you  around  the  Cliff  Walk  and  tell  you." 

She  made  no  promise.  But  the  next  day,  when  Fitz 
called  at  the  cottage  which  Mrs.  Burton,  by  scraping 
and  saving  these  many  years,  had  managed  to  take  for 
the  season,  Eve  was  at  home — and  she  was  alone. 


VI 

Newport,  as  a  whole,  was  busy  preparing  for  the  na 
tional  lawn-tennis  championship.  There  was  a  prince 
to  be  pampered  and  entertained,  and  every  night, 
from  the  door  of  some  great  house  or  other,  a  strip 
of  red  carpet  protruded,  covered  by  an  awning,  and 

41 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

the  coming  and  going  of  smart  carriages  on  Bellevue 
Avenue  seemed  double  that  of  the  week  before.  But 
the  affair  between  James  Holden — who  was  nobody 
knew  who,  and  came  from  nobody  knew  exactly  where — 
and  Newport's  reigning  beauty  held  the  real  centre  of 
the  stage. 

Beautiful  though  Eve  was,  natural  and  unaffected 
though  she  seemed,  people  had  but  to  glance  at  Mrs. 
Burton's  old,  hard,  humorless,  at  once  anxious  and 
triumphant  face  to  know  that  the  girl,  willing  or  not, 
was  a  victim  prepared  for  sacrifice.  Confessedly  poor, 
obviously  extravagant  and  luxury-loving,  even  the  rich 
men  who  wanted  to  marry  her  knew  that  Eve  must 
consider  purses  more  than  hearts.  And  they  held 
themselves  cynically  off  and  allowed  what  was  known 
as  "  Holden's  pipe-dream  "  to  run  its  course.  It  amused 
those  who  wanted  Eve,  those  who  thought  they  did, 
and  all  those  who  loved  a  spectacle.  "  He  will  go  back 
to  his  desk  presently,"  said  the  cynics,  "and  that  will 
be  the  end  of  that."  The  hero  of  the  pipe-dream 
thought  this  at  times  himself.  Well,  if  it  turned  out 
that  way  Eve  was  not  worth  having.  He  believed  that 
she  had  a  heart,  that  if  her  heart  were  touched  she 
would  fling  her  interests  to  the  winds  and  obey  its 
dictates. 

What  Eve  thought  during  the  first  few  days  of 
Holden's  pipe-dream  is  not  clearly  known.  She  must 

42 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

have  been  greatly  taken^  with  him,  or  she  would  not 
have  allowed  him  to  interfere  with  her  plans  for  personal 
advancement  and  aggrandizement,  to  make  a  monopoly 
of  her  society,  and  to  run  his  head  so  violently  into  a 
stone  wall.  After  the  first  few  days,  when  she  realized 
that  she  liked  to  be  with  him  better  than  with  any  one 
she  had  ever  known,  she  probably  thought — or  to  that 
effect — "I'll  just  pretend  a  little — and  have  it  to 
remember."  But  she  found  herself  lying  awake  at 
night,  wishing  that  he  was  rich;  and  later,  not  even 
wishing,  just  lying  awake  and  suffering.  She  had 
made  up  her  mind  some  time  since  to  accept  Darius 
O'Connell  before  the  end  of  the  season.  He  had  a 
prodigious  fortune,  good  habits,  and  a  kind  Irish  way 
with  him.  And  she  still  told  herself  that  it  must  be 
O'Connell,  and  she  lay  awake  and  thought  about  Fitz 
and  suffered. 

Mrs.  Burton  alone  hadn't  a  kind  thought  or  word 
for  him.  Her  face  hardened  at  the  mere  mention  of 
his  name,  and  sometimes,  when  she  saw  a  certain  ex 
pression  that  came  oftener  and  of tener  into  Eve's  face, 
that  callous  which  served  her  for  a  heart  turned  harder 
than  Nature  had  made  it,  and  she  saw  all  her  schemes 
and  all  her  long  labors  demolished  like  a  house  of  cards. 
Even  if  Eve  flung  Fitz  aside  like  an  old  glove,  as  inev 
itably  she  must,  still  Mrs.  Burton's  schemes  would  wear 
a  tinge  of  failure.  The  girl  had  shown  that  the  heart 

43 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

was  not  entirely  educated  out  of  her,  and  was  frighten 
ing  her  mother.  Even  if  things  went  no  further,  here 
was  partial  failure.  She  had  intended  to  make  an  inev 
itably  rising  force  of  Eve,  and  here  at  the  very  outset 
were  lassitude  and  a  glance  aside  at  false  gods. 

Fitz  was  stubbornly  resolved  to  win  Eve  on  his  merits 
or  not  to  win  her  at  all.  He  had  but  to  tell  her  his  real 
name,  or  his  father's,  to  turn  the  balance  of  the  hesitation 
and  doubt;  but  that,  he  told  himself,  would  never, 
never  do.  She  must  turn  aside  from  her  training,  love 
him  for  himself,  and  believe,  if  only  for  a  few  hours, 
that  she  had  thrown  herself  away  upon  poverty  and 
mediocrity,  and  be  happy  in  it;  or  else  she  must  pass 
him  by,  and  sweep  on  up  the  broad,  cold  stairway 
of  her  own  and  her  mother's  ambitions. 

But  Fitz  wanted  her  so  much  that  he  felt  he  must  die 
if  he  lost  her.  And  sometimes  he  was  tempted  to  tell 
her  of  his  millions  and  take  her  for  better  or  worse. 
But  he  would  never  know  then  if  she  cared  for  him  or 
not;  he  would  never  know  then  if  she  had  a  real  heart 
and  was  worth  the  having.  So  he  resisted,  and  his 
young  face  had,  at  times,  a  grim,  careworn  look;  and 
between  hope  and  fear  his  spirits  fell  away  and  he  felt 
tired  and  old.  People  thought  of  him  as  an  absurd 
boy  in  the  most  desperate  throes  of  puppy  love,  and 
certain  ones  felt  grateful  to  Eve  Burton  for  showing 
them  so  pretty  a  bit  of  sport.  Even  those  very  agreeable 

44 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

people,  the  Carrols,  were  disgusted  with  Fitz,  as  are 
all  good  people  when  a  guest  of  the  house  makes  a 
solemn  goose  of  himself.  But  Fitz  was  not  in  the 
least  ridiculous  to  himself,  which  was  important;  and  he 
was  not  ridiculous  to  Eve,  which  was  more  important 
still. 

Then,  one  morning,  the  whole  affair  began  to  look 
serious  even  to  a  scoffing  and  cynical  world.  Darius 
O'Connell  was  missed  at  the  Casino  and  in  the  Reading- 
room;  the  evening  papers  announced  that  he  had  sailed 
for  Europe.  And  Miss  Burton,  far  from  appearing 
anxious  or  unhappy  about  this,  had  never  looked  so 
beautiful  or  so  serene.  Some  said  that  O'Connell  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  the  game  was  not  worth  the 
candle;  others,  that  he  had  proposed  and  had  been 
"sent  packing."  Among  these  latter  was  Mrs.  Burton 
herself,  and  it  will  never  be  known  what  words  of 
abuse  she  poured  upon  Eve.  If  Mrs.  Burton  deserved 
punishment  she  was  receiving  all  that  she  deserved. 
Sick-headaches,  despair,  a  vain,  empty  life  with  its 
last  hopes  melting  away.  Eve — her  Eve — her  beautiful 
daughter  had  a  heart!  That  was  the  sum  of  Mrs. 
Burton's  punishment.  For  a  while  she  resisted  her 
fate  and  fought  against  it,  and  then  collapsed,  bitter, 
broken,  and  old. 

But  what  looked  even  more  serious  than  O'ConneH's 
removing  himself  was  the  fact  that  during  the  match 

45 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

which  was  to  decide  the  lawn-tennis  championship  Eve 
and  her  bank  clerk  did  not  appear  in  the  Casino 
grounds.  Here  were  met  all  the  happy  people  in  soci 
ety  and  all  the  unhappy  people — even  Mrs.  Burton's 
ashen  face  was  noted  among  those  present — but  the 
reigning  belle  and  her  young  man  were  not  in  the  seats 
that  they  had  occupied  during  the  preceding  days  of 
the  tournament;  and  people  pointed  out  those  empty 
seats  to  each  other,  and  smiled  and  lifted  their  eye 
brows;  and  young  Tombs,  who  had  been  making  furi 
ous  love  to  one  of  the  Blackwell  twins — for  the  third 
tournament  in  five  years — sighed  and  whispered  to 
her:  "Dolly,  did  you  ever  in  your  life  see  two  empty 
seats  sitting  so  close  to  each  other?" 

Meanwhile,  Fitz  and  the  beauty  were  strolling  along 
the  Cliff  Walk  in  the  bright  sunshine,  with  the  cool 
Atlantic  breeze  in  their  faces,  between  lawns  and  gar 
dens  on  the  one  side  and  dancing  blue  waves  upon 
the  other.  Fitz  looked  pale  and  careworn.  But  Eve 
looked  ecstatic.  This  was  because  poor  Fitz,  on  the 
one  hand,  was  still  in  the  misery  of  doubt  and  un 
certainty,  and  because  Eve,  on  the  other,  had  suddenly 
made  up  her  mind  and  knew  almost  exactly  what  was 
going  to  happen. 

The  Cliff  Walk  belongs  to  the  public,  and  here 
and  there  meanders  irritatingly  over  some  very  ex 
clusive  millionaire's  front  lawn.  A  few  such,  un- 

46 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

able  to  endure  the  sight  of  strangers,  have  caused 
this  walk,  where  it  crosses  their  properties,  to  be 
sunk  so  that  from  the  windows  of  their  houses 
neither  the  walk  itself  nor  persons  walking  upon  it 
can  be  seen. 

Fitz  and  the  beauty  were  approaching  one  of  these 
"ha-ha's"  into  which  the  path  dipped  steeply  and  from 
which  it  rose  steeply  upon  the  farther  side.  On  the 
left  was  a  blank  wall  of  granite  blocks,  on  the  right 
only  a  few  thousand  miles  of  blind  ocean.  It  may 
have  been  a  distant  view  of  this  particular  "ha-ha" 
that  had  made  up  Eve's  mind  for  her,  for  she  had  a 
strong  dramatic  sense.  Or  it  may  have  been  that  her 
heart  alone  had  made  up  her  mind,  and  that  the  se 
cluded  depths  of  the  " ha-ha"  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  matter. 

"Jim,"  she  said  as  they  began  to  descend  into  the 
place,  "life's  only  a  moment  out  of  eternity,  isn't 
it?" 

"Only  a  moment,  Eve,"  he  said,  "a  little  longer  for 
some  than  for  others." 

"If  it's  only  a  moment,"  she  said  as  they  reached  the 
bottom  of  the  decline,  and  could  only  be  seen  by  the 
blind  granite  wall  and  the  blind  ocean,  "I  think  it 
ought  to  be  complete." 

"Why,  Eve!"  he  said,  his  voice  breaking  and  choking. 
"Honestly?  ...  My  Eve!  .  .  .  Mine!  .  .  .  Look  at 

47 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

me.  ...  Is  it  true?  .  .  .  Are  you  sure?  .  .  .  Why, 
she's  sure!  .  .  .  My  darling's  sure  ...  all  sure." 

Later  he  said:  "And  you  don't  care  about  money,  and 
you've  got  the  biggest,  sweetest  heart  in  all  the  world. 
And  it's  mine,  and  mine's  yours." 

"I  can't  seem  to  see  anything  in  any  direction,"  she 
said,  "beyond  you." 

Later  they  had  to  separate,  only  to  meet  again  at  a 
dinner.  Before  they  went  in  they  had  a  word  together 
in  a  corner. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Fitz,  "that  my  father  would  under 
stand,  and  you  said  he  wouldn't.  But  he  did;  his 
answer  came  while  I  was  dressing.  I  telegraphed:  'I 
have  seen  the  world,'  and  the  answer  was:  'Put  a  fence 
around  it.' ' 

She  smiled  with  delight. 

"Eve,"  he  said,  "everybody  knows  that  you've  taken 
me.  It's  in  our  faces,  I  suppose.  And  they  are  saying 
that  you  are  a  goose  to  throw  yourself  away  on  a  bank 
clerk." 

"Do  you  think  I  care?"  she  said. 

"I  know  you  don't,"  he  said,  "but  I  can't  help 
thanking  you  for  holding  your  head  so  high  and  looking 
so  happy  and  so  proud." 

"Wouldn't  you  be  proud,"  she  said,  "to  have  been 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

brought  up  to  think  that  you  had  no  heart,  and  then  to 
find  that,  in  spite  of  everything,  you  had  one  that  could 
jump  and  thump,  and  love  and  long,  and  make  poverty 
look  like  paradise?" 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  a  little,"  he  said.  "Your 
mother  tried  to  make  you  into  an  Article;  my  mother 
tried  to  make  an  Englishman  of  me.  And  instead,  you 
turned  into  an  angel,  and  I  was  never  anything  but  a 
spread  eagle." 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  can't  help  feeling  a 
little  sorry  for  poor  mamma." 

"Then,"  said  he,  "put  your  left  hand  behind  your 
back."  She  felt  him  slide  a  heavy  ring  upon  her  en 
gagement  finger.  "Show  her  that,  and  tell  her  that 
it  isn't  glass." 

Eve  couldn't  keep  from  just  one  covert  glance  at 
her  ring.  The  sight  of  it  almost  took  her  breath 
away. 

Dinner  was  announced. 

"I  am  frightened,"  she  said;  "have  I  given  myself 
to  a  djinn?" 

"My  Eve  doesn't  know  whom  she's  given  herself 
to,"  he  whispered. 

"I  don't  believe  I  do,"  she  said. 

"You  don't,"  said  he. 

An  immense  pride  in  his  father's  wealth  and  his  own 
suddenly  surged  in  Fitz.  He  could  give  her  all  those 

49 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

things  that  she  had  renounced  for  his  sake,  and  more, 
too.  But  he  did  not  tell  her  at  that  time. 

The  great  ruby  on  the  slim  hand  flashed  its  message 
about  the  festive  board.  Some  of  the  best-bred  ladies 
in  the  land  threatened  to  become  pop-eyed  from  look 
ing  at  it. 

Mrs.  Blackwell,  mother  of  the  twins,  whispered  to 
Montgomery  Stairs: 

"That  Holden  boy  seems  to  have  more  to  him  than 
I  had  fancied." 

But  young  Tombs  whispered  to  Dolly  Blackwell, 
to  whom  he  had  just  become  engaged  for  the  third 
(and  last)  time  in  five  years:  "She  isn't  thinking  about 
the  ring.  .  .  .  Look  at  her.  .  .  .  She's  listening  to 


Montgomery  Stairs  (who  is  not  altogether  reliable) 
claims  to  have  seen  Mrs.  Burton  within  five  minutes 
of  her  learning  who  her  son-in-law-to-be  really  was. 
For,  of  course,  this  came  out  presently  and  made  a 
profound  sensation.  He  claims  to  have  seen — from  a 
convenient  eyrie — Mrs.  Burton  rush  out  into  the  little 
garden  behind  her  cottage;  he  claims  that  all  of  a  sudden 
she  leaped  into  the  air  and  turned  a  double  somersault, 
and  that  immediately  after  she  ran  up  and  down  the 
paths  on  her  hands;  that  then  she  stood  upon  her  head 
for  nearly  five  minutes;  and  that  finally  she  flung 

50 


THE  SPREAD  EAGLE 

herself  down  and  rolled  over  and  over  in  a  bed  of 
heliotrope. 

But  then,  as  is  well  known,  Montgomery  Stairs,  in 
the  good  American  phrase,  was  one  of  those  who 
"also  ran." 

Darius  O'Connell  sent  a  cable  to  Eve  from  Paris 
(from  Maxim's,  I  am  afraid,  late  at  night).  He  said: 
"Heartiest  congratulations  and  best  wishes.  You  can 
fool  some  of  the  best  people  some  of  the  time,  but, 
thank  God,  you  can't  fool  all  of  the  best  people  all  of  the 
time."  Eve  and  Fitz  never  knew  just  what  he  meant. 

They  spent  part  of  their  honeymoon  in  Cleveland, 
and  every  afternoon  Eve  sat  between  Fitz  and  his 
father,  leaning  forward,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  and 
was  taught  painstakingly,  as  the  crowning  gift  of  those 
two  simple  hearts,  to  play  the  game. 

There  must  be  one  word  more.  There  are  people 
to  this  day  who  say  that  Eve  knew  from  the  beginning 
who  "James  Holden"  was,  and  that  she  played  her 
cards  accordingly.  In  view  of  this  I  fling  all  caution 
to  the  wind,  and  in  spite  of  the  cold  fear  that  is  upon  me 
of  being  sued  for  libel,  I  tell  these  ladies — people,  I 
mean — that  they  lie  in  their  teeth. 


TARGETS 


TARGETS 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  Gardiner,  "lightning  very 
often  strikes  twice  in  the  same  place,  and  often  three 
times.  The  so-called  all-wise  Providence  is  still  in  the 
experimental  stage.  My  grandmother,  for  instance, 
presented  my  grandfather  with  fifteen  children: 
seven  live  sons  and  eight  dead  daughters.  That's 
when  the  lightning  had  fun  with  itself.  And  when 
the  epidemic  of  ophthalmia  broke  out  in  the  Straits 
Settlements,  what  class  of  people  do  you  suppose 
developed  the  highest  percentage  of  total  loss  of  sight 
in  one  or  both  eyes  ? — why  the  inmates  of  the  big  asy 
lum  for  the  deaf  and  dumb  in  Singapore:  twenty  per 
cent  of  those  poor  stricken  souls  went  stone  blind. 
Then  what  do  you  think  the  lightning  did?  Set  the 
blooming  asylum  on  fire  and  burned  it  to  the  ground. 
And  then,  I  dare  say,  the  elements  retired  to  some 
region  of  waste,  off  in  space  somewhere,  and  sat  down 
and  thundered  with  laughter.  But  it  wasn't  through 
with  the  deaf  and  dumb,  and  blind,  and  roofless  even 
then.  It  was  decided  by  government,  which  is  the 
next  most  irresponsible  instrument  to  lightning,  to 

55 


TARGETS 

transfer  the  late  inmates  of  the  asylum  to  a  remanded 
barrack  in  the  salubrious  Ceylon  hills;  and  they  were 
put  aboard  a  ram-shackle,  single-screw  steamer  named 
the  Nerissa.  She  was  wrecked " 

"Coast  of  Java— in  '80,  wasn't  it?"  said  Pedder, 
who  has  read  nothing  but  dictionaries  and  books  of 
black-and-white  facts  and  statistics  in  the  course  of  a 
long  life  otherwise  entirely  devoted  to  misdirected 
efforts  to  defeat  Colonel  Bogey  at  golf. 

"It  was,"  said  Gardiner,  "and  the  lightning  was 
very  busy  striking.  It  drowned  off  every  member  of 
the  crew  who  had  any  sense  of  decency;  and  of  the 
deaf  and  dumb  passengers  selected  to  be  washed 
ashore  a  pair  who  were  also  blind.  Those  saved 
came  to  land  at  a  jungly  stretch  of  coast,  dented  by  a 
slow-running  creek.  The  crew  called  the  place  Quick 
step  Inlet  because  of  the  panicky  and  inhuman  haste 
in  which  they  left  it." 

"Why  inhuman?"  asked  Ludlow. 

"Because,"  said  Gardiner,  "they  only  gave  about 
one  look  at  their  two  comrades  in  misfortune  who  were 
deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind,  and  decided  that  it  was 
impracticable  to  attempt  to  take  them  along.  I  sup 
pose  they  were  right.  I  suppose  it  would  have  been 
the  devil's  own  job.  The  really  nasty  part  was  that 
the  crew  made  a  secret  of  it,  and  when  some  of  them, 
having  passed  through  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of 

56 


TARGETS 

fright  and  fever,  and  foul  water,  and  wild  beasts, 
reached  a  settlement  they  didn't  say  a  word  about  the 
two  unfortunates  who  had  been  deliberately  aban 
doned." 

"How  was  it  found  out  then?"  Pedder  asked. 

"Years  and  years  afterward  by  the  ravings  in  liquor 
of  one  of  the  crew,  and  by  certain  things  that  I'd  like 
to  tell  you  if  you'd  be  interested." 

"Go  on,"  said  Ludlow. 

"The  important  thing,"  said  Gardiner,  "is  that  the 
pair  were  deserted — not  why  they  were  deserted,  or 
how  it  was  found  out  that  they  had  been.  And  one 
thing — speaking  of  lightning  and  Providence — is  very 
important.  If  the  pair  hadn't  been  blind,  if  the  asy 
lum  hadn't  been  burned,  if  the  Nerissa  hadn't  been 
wrecked,  and  if  the  crew  hadn't  deserted  them — they 
would  never  in  this  world  have  had  an  opportunity 
to  lift  to  their  lips  the  cup  of  human  happiness  and 
drink  it  off. 

"The  man  did  not  know  that  he  had  been  deserted. 
He  vaguely  understood  that  there  had  been  a  ship 
wreck  and  that  he  had  been  washed  ashore — alone,  he 
thought.  When  he  got  hungry  he  began  to  crawl 
round  and  round  with  his  hands  in  front  of  his  face 
feeling  for  something  to  eat,  trying  and  approving  of 
one  handful  of  leaves  and  spitting  out  another.  But 
thirst  began  to  torment  him,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden, 

57 


TARGETS 

he  went  souse  into  the  creek  that  there  emptied  into 
the  sea.  That  way  of  life  went  on  for  several  days. 
And  all  the  while,  the  woman,  just  as  she  had  come 
ashore,  was  keeping  life  going  similarly — crawling 
about,  always  near  the  creek,  crossing  the  beach  at 
low  tide  to  the  mud  flats  and  rooting  among  the  mol- 
lusks,  and  stuffing  herself  with  any  kind  of  sea-growth 
that  tasted  good  enough.  The  two  were  probably 
often  within  a  few  feet  of  each  other;  and  they  might 
have  lived  out  their  lives  that  way  without  either  of 
them  ever  having  the  least  idea  that  he  or  she  was  not 
the  only  human  being  in  that  part  of  the  world.  But 
something — pure  accident  or  some  subtle  instinct — 
brought  them  together.  The  man  was  out  crawling 
with  one  hand  before  his  face — so  was  the  woman. 
Their  hands  met,  and  clinched.  They  remained  thus, 
and  trembling,  for  a  long  time.  From  that  time  until 
the  day  of  their  death,  years  and  years  later,  they 
never  for  so  much  as  one  moment  lost  contact  with 
each  other. 

"Daily  they  crawled  or  walked  with  infinite  slow 
ness,  hand  in  hand,  or  the  arm  of  one  about  the  waist 
of  the  other — neither  knowing  the  look,  the  age,  the 
religion  or  even  the  color  of  the  other.  But  I  know, 
from  the  only  person  fitted  to  judge,  that  they  loved 
each  other  tremendously  and  spotlessly — these  two 
poor  souls  alone  in  that  continuous,  soundless,  sight- 

58 


TARGETS 

less,  expressionless  night.  I  know  because  their  baby, 
when  he  grew  up,  and  got  away  from  that  place,  and 
learned  white  man's  talk — told  me. 

"He  left  Quickstep  Inlet  when  he  was  about  fif 
teen  years  old,  naked  as  the  day  he  was  born;  ignorant 
of  everything — who  he  was  or  what  he  was,  or  that  the 
world  contained  anything  similar  to  him.  It  was  some 
restless  spirit  of  exploration  that  smoulders  I  suppose, 
in  every  human  heart,  that  compelled  him  to  leave  the 
few  hundred  acres  of  shore  and  wood  that  were  familiar 
to  him.  He  carried  with  him  upon  his  bold  journey  a 
roll  of  bark,  resembling  birch-bark,  upon  which  he  had 
scratched  with  a  sharp  shell  the  most  meaningless- 
looking  lines,  curves,  spirals  and  gyrations  that  you 
can  imagine.  He  will  have  that  roll  in  his  possession 
now,  I  expect,  for  even  when  I  knew  him — when  he 
was  twenty  years  old,  and  could  talk  English  pretty 
nimbly,  he  could  hardly  bear  to  be  separated  from  it — 
or,  if  he  let  you  take  one  of  the  sheets  in  your  hands, 
he  would  watch  you  as  a  dog  watches  the  person  that 
is  about  to  give  him  his  dinner.  But  he  ran  very  little 
risk  of  having  it  stolen.  Nobody  wanted  it. 

"He  must  have  been  a  gentle  savage,  with  all  sorts 
of  decent  inherited  instincts,  for  when  I  knew  him  he 
had  already  taken  kindly  to  civilization.  At  first,  of 
course,  they  had  a  bad  time  with  him;  they  couldn't 
talk  to  him,  and  when,  quite  naturally  and  noncha- 
€  59 


TARGETS 

lantly  he  would  start  in  to  do  the  most  outrageous 
things,  they  had  to  teach  him  better,  literally  by  force. 
If  Pedder  weren't  such  an  old  stickler  for  propriety,  I 
could  go  more  into  detail.  You  needn't  look  offended, 
Ped,  you  know  you  are  very  easily  shocked,  and  that 
you  make  it  unpleasant  for  everybody.  He  was  taken 
on  by  the  English  consul  at  Teerak,  who  was  a  good 
fellow,  and  clothed,  and  taught  to  speak  English,  and, 
as  a  beginning,  to  work  in  the  garden.  Indoor  work 
seemed  to  have  almost  the  effect  of  nauseating  him; 
and  houses  and  closed  doors  threw  him  at  first  into 
frenzies  of  fear,  and  always  made  him  miserable.  It 
was  apparent  in  his  face,  but  more  in  his  way  of  put 
ting  up  his  fists  when  in  doubt,  that  he  wasn't  Dutch 
nor  German  nor  French.  He  was  probably  English, 
they  thought,  but  he  might  have  been  American,  and 
so  they  had  an  orthodox  christening  and  named  him 
Jonathan  Bull.  Of  course,  after  he  got  the  trick  of 
speech,  they  found  out,  by  putting  two  and  two  to 
gether,  just  about  who  and  what  he  was;  and  that  he 
was  of  English  parentage.  But,  of  course,  they  had  to 
let  the  name  stand, 

"The  first  thing,  he  told  me,  that  ever  came  to  him 
in  the  way  of  a  thought  was  that  he  was  different  from 
his  parents — that  they  couldn't  see,  nor  hear,  nor 
make  a  noise  as  he  could.  He  could  remember  sitting 
comfortably  in  the  mud  at  low  tide  and  being  con- 

60 


TARGETS 

vulsed  with  laughter  at  his  mother's  efforts  to  find  a 
fat  mussel  that  was  within  a  few  inches  of  her  hand. 
He  said  that  within  a  small  radius  his  parents  had 
made  paths,  by  constant  peregrinations  in  search  of 
food,  that  had  become  so  familiar  to  them  that  they 
could  move  hither  and  thither,  hand  in  hand,  with  con 
siderable  precision  and  alacrity.  It  was  one  of  his 
earliest  mischievous  instincts  to  place  obstacles  in  those 
paths,  and  take  a  humorous  view  of  the  consequent 
tumbles. 

"The  only  intercourse  that  he  could  have  with  his 
parents  was,  of  course,  by  sense  of  touch.  And  he 
told  me  that,  whenever  they  could  catch  him,  they 
would  kiss  him  and  fondle  him.  But  he  didn't  like  to 
be  caressed,  especially  in  the  daytime.  It  was  different 
at  night  when  one  became  nervous  and  afraid;  then 
he  used  to  let  himself  be  caught;  and  he  said  that  he 
used  to  hold  hands  with  his  mother  until  he  went  to 
sleep  and  that  when  he  awoke  it  was  to  find  that  the 
clasp  still  held.  It  was  a  long  time  before  he  realized 
that  what  to  him  were  whimsical  pranks,  were  in  the 
nature  of  tragedies  to  his  parents.  If  he  put  a  stum 
bling-block  in  one  of  their  paths,  it  upset  the  whole 
fabric  of  their  daily  life,  made  them  feel,  I  suppose, 
that  they  were  losing  such  faculties  as  they  possessed: 
memory  and  the  sense  of  touch — and  they  would  be 
obliged  either  to  walk  with  infinite  slowness,  or  actu- 

61 


TARGETS 

ally  to  crawl.  And  it  was  long  before  he  realized  that 
things  which  were  perfectly  simple  and  easy  for  him, 
were  frightfully  difficult  for  them;  and  he  said  that  his 
first  recollection  of  a  tender  and  gentle  feeling  was  once 
when — heaven  only  knows  how — his  parents  found  a 
nest  with  eggs  in  it — and  brought  these  eggs  to  him. 
He  realized  then  something  of  what  a  prize  these  eggs 
must  have  seemed  to  them — for  he  had  often  scram 
bled  into  trees  and  glutted  himself  with  eggs,  whereas, 
so  far  as  he  could  recollect,  his  parents  had  never  had 
any  at  all.  He  began  from  that  time  on  to  collect 
choice  tidbits  for  them;  and  wondered  why  he  had  not 
done  so  before.  And  they  rewarded  him  with  caresses 
and  kisses;  I  suppose  his  real  reward  was  his  own 
virtue.  Anyway,  though  very  gradually  at  first,  in 
stinct  taught  him  to  be  a  good  son  to  them. 

"The  lessons  that  he  learned  of  life  were,  first  of  all, 
from  his  parents,  who  were  always  near  at  hand  for 
study;  second,  from  birds  and  animals,  there  being  a 
pool  not  far  up  the  creek  where  even  tigers  sometimes 
came  to  drink;  from  occasional  monkeys;  but  mostly, 
of  course,  by  intuition  and  introspection. 

"He  noticed  that  birds  and  animals  all  had  the  use 
of  sight  and  hearing,  and  were  able  to  make  sounds; 
and  his  own  forest-trained  senses  soon  perceived  dif 
ferent  meanings,  and  even  shades  of  meaning  in  cer 
tain  of  these  sounds.  The  larger  animals  were  not, 

62 


TARGETS 

of  course,  constantly  under  observation,  and  from  ti 
gers,  for  instance,  he  learned  only  the  main  principles 
of  tiger-talk — a  kind  of  singsong  snuffling  purr  that 
means  'get  out  of  the  way';  the  cringing  whine  that 
means  the  tiger  is  very  sorry  for  himself;  and  two  or 
three  of  the  full-throated  roars:  the  one  expressing 
rage,  the  one  expressing  fear,  and  the  one  expressing 
pained  astonishment.  But  into  the  vocabularies  of 
birds  he  penetrated  very  deeply. 

"  One  day,  when  I  had  got  to  know  Jonathan  rather 
well,  he  surprised  me  by  saying,  'the  minute  I  got  the 
idea,  I  talked  all  day  long,  but  it  was  years  before  I 
thought  of  writing  down  what  I  said,  instead  of  plain 
trying  to  remember.  At  first,  when  I'd  say  something 
that  I  wanted  to  remember,  I'd  have  to  coax  my  head 
into  remembering  the  place  where  I  had  said  it,  near 
which  tree,  or  which  stone  on  the  beach,  what  had 
happened  to  make  me  think  of  saying  it,  and  then, 
more  often  than  not,  I  could  repeat  it  word  for  word/ 
Then  he  showed  me  the  sheets  of  bark  with  the  scratches 
and  scrawls  and  gyrations  on  them.  'It  isn't  spelled 
writing,'  he  explained,  'or  what  they  call  picture  writ 
ing.  I  don't  believe  it  has  enough  general  principles 
for  me  to  be  able  to  explain  it  as  a  system,  though  it 
has  a  sort  of  system  to  it.  If  it's  like  anything,  I  think 
it  must  be  like  the  way  they  write  down  music.  It 
would  be,  wouldn't  it?  Because  beasts  don't  talk 

63 


TARGETS 

with  words,  they  talk  with  sounds,  and  I  copycatted 
my  language  from  beasts  and  birds/ 

"I  asked  him  what  the  writing  on  the  bark  was  all 
about.  He  said,  and  he  blushed,  as  every  young 
author,  and  most  old  ones,  should,  that  the  writing 
was  just  more  or  less  nothing — all  about  different 
kinds  of  things.  So  I  pointed  specifically  to  the  top 
of  one  sheet,  and  said,  'begin  there  and  tell  me  what 
that's  about.'  'If  I  began  there/  he  said,  Td  have  to 
go  backward;  that's  the  finish  of — oh!'  he  literally 
threw  himself  on  my  mercy  with  the  most  ingenuous 
blushing  face.  'Oh/  he  said,  'I  suppose  you'd  call 
them  poems.'  I,  of  course,  had  my  doubts  of  that; 
but  I  kept  countenance,  and  said,  'well,  what's  that 
one  about?'  He  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment,  and 
then  he  smiled.  'Why/  he  said,  'I  suppose  it's  about 
me,  about  the  way  I  felt  one  day,  I  suppose;  but  if  I 
tried  to  say  it  into  English  it  would  just  sound  damn 
foolish;  but,  perhaps,  you'd  sooner  hear  it  in  my  own 
language.  It's  better,  because,  after  all,  you  can't  turn 
sounds  into  words,  can  you?'  'Go  ahead/  I  said. 

"His  hands,  holding  the  sheet  of  bark  shook  a  little 
with  embarrassment,  and  he  was  very  red  in  the  face; 
and  before  he  could  begin — I  suppose  you  would  call 
it  reading — he  had  to  wet  his  lips  two  or  three  times. 
I  expected,  of  course,  to  hear  the  usual  grunts  and 
minor  guttural  sounds  of  the  usual  very  primitive  dia- 

64 


TARGETS 

lect.  But  Jonathan's  own  particular  patent  language 
was  not  that  sort  of  thing  at  all.  He  began  with  the 
faintest,  and  most  distinct  rustling  of  leaves — I  can't 
imagine  how  he  made  the  sound  at  all.  It  seemed  to 
come  from  somewhere  between  the  back  of  his  throat 
and  his  lips,  and  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  his  tongue 
or  vocal  cords.  It  lasted  for,  perhaps,  half  a  minute; 
dying  out,  fainter  and  fainter  and  finer  and  finer  into 
complete  silence.  Then,  from  the  distant  point  where 
the  rustling  had  last  been  heard,  there  came  the  softest 
little  throaty  whistle,  three  times  repeated;  then,  for 
two  good  minutes  without  seeming  to  draw  breath, 
the  young  man  burst  into  peal  after  peal  of  the  sweet 
est,  clearest,  highest,  swiftest  whistling  that  you  can 
possibly  imagine.  I  don't  know  how  he  did  it — he 
didn't  even  purse  or  move  his  lips — they  were  barely 
parted,  in  a  kind  of  plaintive,  sad  little  smile — and 
the  notes  came  out;  that  was  all.  Of  course  I  can't 
tell  you  what  the  thing  meant  word  for  word  or  sound 
for  sound;  but,  in  general,  it  said  youth,  youth  and 
spring;  and  I  tell  you  it  had  those  compositions  of 
Mendelssohn,  and  Grieg,  and  Sinding  lashed  to  the 
mast.  Well,  the  leaves  rustled  again,  a  little  lower  in 
the  scale,  I  think,  but  wouldn't  swear  to  it,  and  the 
first  little  soft  throaty  whistle  was  twice  repeated — and 
there  was  a  little,  tiny  whisper  of  a  human  moan. 
And  that  was  the  end  of  that  poem. 

65 


TARGETS 

"I  made  him  read  to  me  from  his  bark  sheets  until 
he  was  tired  out.  And  the  next  day  I  was  at  him 
again  early,  and  the  next.  Suppose  you  were  living 
in  a  jumping-off  place,  bored  to  death,  and  blowing 
yourself  every  fifth  or  sixth  day  to  a  brand  new  crop 
of  prickly  heat;  and  wanted  to  go  away,  and  couldn't 
because  you  had  to  sit  around  until  a  fat  Dutchman 
made  up  his  mind  about  a  concession;  and  suppose 
the  only  book  in  the  place  was  on  the  uses  of  and 
manufacture  and  by-products  of  the  royal  palm,  writ 
ten  in  a  beastly  language  called  Tamil,  which  you 
only  knew  enough  of  to  ask  for  tea  and  toast  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  were  usually  understood 
to  mean  soda  biscuits  and  a  dish  of  buffalo  milk. 
And  suppose  that  then  you  came  across  the  complete 
works  of  Shakespeare — and  that  you  had  never  read 
them — or  the  Odyssey  and  that  you  had  never  read 
that — or,  better,  suppose  that  there  was  a  Steinway 
piano  in  your  sitting-room,  and  that  one  day  the  boy 
who  worked  the  punka  for  you  dropped  the  rope  and 
sat  down  at  the  piano  and  played  Beethoven  from  be 
ginning  to  end — as  Rubenstein  would  have  played 
him — and  suppose  you  had  never  heard  a  note  of 
Beethoven  before.  It  was  like  that — listening  to  the 
works  of  Jonathan  Bull." 

Gardiner  paused,  as  if  considering  very  carefully 
what  he  should  say. 

66 


TARGETS 

"No!"  he  said  presently,  "I'm  jwt  overdoing  it. 
My  judgment  of  Jonathan  Bull  is  no  longer  a  sudden 
enthusiasm,  as  the  natural  effort  of  a  man  to  make  his 
own  discoveries  seem  more  important  to  his  friends 
than  they  deserve.  He  is  one  of  the  giants.  Think 
of  it:  he  had  made,  on  an  impulse  of  out  and  out 
creation,  the  most  expressive  of  all  languages,  so  far 
as  mere  sound  goes;  and  as  if  that  were  not  enough, 
he  had  gone  ahead  and  composed  in  that  language  in 
comparable  lyrics.  The  meanings  were  in  the  sounds. 
You  couldn't  mistake  them.  Have  you  ever  heard  a 
tiger  roar — full  steam  ahead?  There  was  one  piece 
that  began  suddenly  with  a  kind  of  terrible,  obsessing, 
strong  purring  that  shook  the  walls  of  the  room  and 
that  went  into  a  series  of  the  most  terrible  tiger  roars 
and  ended  with  the  nightmare  screams  of  a  child.  I 
have  never  been  so  frightened  in  my  life.  And  there 
was  a  snake  song,  a  soft,  wavy,  piano,  pianissimo 
effect,  all  malignant  stealth  and  horror,  and  running 
through  it  were  the  guileless  and  insistently  hungry 
twitterings  of  baby  birds  in  the  nest.  But  there  were 
comical  pieces,  too,  in  which  ludicrous  adventures  be 
fell  unsophisticated  monkeys;  and  there  was  a  whole 
series  of  spring-fever  songs — some  of  them  just  rotten 
and  nervous,  and  some  of  them  sad  and  yearning — 
and  some  of  them — I  don't  know  just  how  to  put  it 
— well,  some  of  them  you  might  say  were  not  exactly 

67 


TARGETS 

fit  to  print.  One  thing  he  read  me — it  was  very  short 
— consisted  of  hoarse,  inarticulate,  broken  groans — I 
couldn't  make  out  what  it  meant  at  all.  And  I  was 
very  curious  to  know,  because  it  seemed  to  move 
Jonathan  himself  much  more  than  anything  else 
of  his. 

"  'You  know/  he  explained  to  me,  'my  father  and 
mother  couldn't  make  any  sound  at  all — oh,  yes — 
they  could  clap  their  hands  together  and  make  a 
sound  that  way — but  I  mean  with  their  voices — they 
hadn't  any  voices — sometimes  their  lips  smacked  and 
made  a  noise  over  eating,  or  kissing;  but  they  couldn't 
make  sounds  in  their  throats.  Well,  when  my  mother 
died — just  think,  she  couldn't  make  my  father  under 
stand  that  she  was  sick;  and  I  couldn't.  I  tried  every 
way.  He  didn't  know  that  she  was  leaving  him — 
I'm  glad  you  can't  see  that  poor  blind  face  of  her's, 
turned  to  father's  blind  face  and  trying  to  tell  him 
good-by — I  see  it,  almost  all  the  time,'  he  said.  'You 
know  they  were  always  touching — I  can't  remember  a 
single  second  in  all  those  years  when  they  weren't  at 
least  holding  hands.  She  went  in  the  night.  My 
father  was  asleep  with  one  arm  over  and  about  her. 
As  she  got  colder  and  colder  it  waked  him.  And  he 
understood.  Then  he  began  to  make  those  dumb, 
helpless  groans,  like  that  piece  I  just  read  you — the 
nearest  he  got  to  speaking.  He  sat  on  the  ground  and 

68 


TARGETS 

held  her  in  his  arms  all  the  rest  of  the  night,  and  all 
the  next  day,  and  the  next  night — I  couldn't  make 
him  let  go,  and  every  little  while  he  went  into  those 
dreadful,  dumb  groanings.  You  don't  get  brought  up 
in  the  jungle  without  knowing  death  when  you  see  it, 
and  what  dead  things  do.  The  second  night,  about 
midnight,  the  news  of  my  mother's  death  began  to  get 
about;  and  horrible,  hunchbacked  beasts  that  I  had 
never  seen  or  dreamed  of  before  began  to  slink  about 
among  the  trees,  and  peer  out,  and  snuffle,  and  com 
plain — and  suddenly  laugh  just  like  men.  And  I  was 
so  frightened  of  them,  and  of  the  night  anyway,  that 
every  now  and  then  I'd  go  into  a  regular  screaming 
fit,  and  that  would  drive  them  away  and  keep  them 
quiet  for  a  time,  but  pretty  soon  I'd  hear  their  cau 
tious  steps,  way  off,  drawing  closer  and  closer,  and 
then  the  things  would  begin  to  snuffle,  and  complain, 
and  laugh  again — they  had  disgusting,  black  dog 
faces,  and  one  came  very  close,  and  I  could  see  the 
water  running  out  of  its  mouth.  But  when  dawn 
began  to  break  they  drew  farther  and  farther  away, 
until  you  could  only  hear  them — now  and  then. 

"  '  My  father  looked  very  white  and  ill,  as  was  na 
tural  enough;  but  his  face  now  had  a  peaceful,  con 
tented  expression.  I  didn't  understand  at  first  that 
he,  in  his  turn,  was  dying.  But  it  wasn't  of  a  broken 
heart,  as  you  might  suppose,  or  anything  like  that;  he 


TARGETS 

had  gnawed  his  left  wrist  until  he  got  the  arteries  open; 
and  he  was  bleeding  to  death. 

"  *  Once  a  big  dead  fish  was  washed  up  on  the  beach 
— it  was  when  I  was  quite  a  little  boy — but  I  remem 
bered  how,  after  a  day  or  two,  even  my  parents  had 
no  trouble  in  finding  it,  and  I  remembered  how  my 
father  had  scooped  a  hole  in  the  sand  and  buried  it. 
So  I  scooped  a  great  deep  hole  in  the  sand,  very  deep 
until  water  began  to  trickle  into  it.  And  I  had  sense 
enough,  when  it  came  to  filling  up  the  hole,  to  put  in 
lots  of  big  stones,  the  biggest  I  could  roll  in.  And  I'm 
strong.  I  stayed  on — for  about  six  months,  getting 
lonelier  and  lonelier — and  then  spring  came.  I  think 
that  was  really  what  started  me.  I  still  go  almost 
crazy  every  spring — anyway  I  got  to  this  place,  and 
found  people/  " 

"What's  he  doing  now?"  asked  Pedder. 

"He's  trying,"  said  Gardiner,  "to  do  it  in  English. 
Of  course  it  seems  impossible  that  he  should  succeed. 
But  then  it  was  absolutely  impossible  for  Shakespeare 
to  do  what  he  did  with  the  English  language,  wasn't 
it?  And  yet  he  did  it." 

"But—"  said  Pedder. 

"Ped,"  said  Gardiner,  "we  don't  control  the  light 
nings;  and  you  never  can  tell  where  they  are  going  to 
strike  next — or  when." 

70 


TARGETS 

Ludlow  flushed  a  little,  and  did  not  look  at  his 
friends. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  wonderful,"  he  said,  "to  be  loved 
and  to  be  in  love  the  way  his  father  and  mother  were. 
Maybe  they  were  the  ones  that  really  heard  and  saw, 
and — sang.  We  admire  the  lily,  but  we  owe  her  to 
the  loves  of  the  blind  rain  for  the  deaf  and  the  dumb 
earth.  .  .  ." 

Nobody  spoke  for  some  moments.  It  had  been  the 
only  allusion  that  Ludlow  had  made  in  years  and 
years  to  that  which  had  left  him  a  lonely  and  a  cynical 
man. 

"I  wonder,"  Pedder  mused,  "how  it  ever  occurred 
to  a  blind,  deaf  mute  that  severing  his  wrist  with  his 
teeth  would  induce  death?" 

Gardiner  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"It  is  always  interesting,"  he  said,  "to  know  just 
which  part  of  a  story — if  any — is  thought  worthy  of 
consideration  by  a  given  individual." 


THE  BOOT 


THE  BOOT 

Mary  Rex  was  more  particularly  my  nurse,  for  my 
sister  Ellen,  a  thoughtful,  dependable  child  of  eight, 
was  her  own  mistress  in  most  matters. 

This  was  in  the  days  when  we  got  our  servants 
from  neighborhood  families;  before  the  Swedish  and 
Irish  invasion  had  made  servants  of  us  in  turn.  Mary 
was  the  youngest  of  an  ancestored  county  family.  Her 
great-grandfather  had  fought  in  the  Revolution,  as  you 
might  know  by  the  great  flint-lock  musket  over  the 
Rexes'  fireplace.  A  brother  of  his  had  formed  part 
of  a  British  square  at  Waterloo;  and  if  Mary's  own 
father  had  not  lost  his  right  hand  at  Gettysburg  he 
would  never  have  let  his  children  go  out  to  service. 
Poor  soul,  he  bore  the  whole  of  his  afflictions,  those  to 
his  body  and  those  to  his  pride,  with  a  dignity  not 
often  seen  in  these  degenerate  days.  He  was  by  trade 
a  blacksmith,  and  it  was  for  that  reason,  I  suppose, 
that  Providence,  who  loves  a  little  joke,  elected  for 
amputation  his  right  hand  rather  than  one  or  both  of 
his  feet.  Since,  even  in  these  degenerate  days,  many 
a  footless  blacksmith  makes  an  honest  living. 

75 


THE  BOOT 

Mary  was  a  smart,  comely,  upstanding  young  wom 
an.  Even  my  father,  a  dismal  sceptic  anent  human 
frailty,  said  that  he  would  freely  trust  her  around  the 
farthest  corner  in  Christendom.  And  I  gathered  from 
the  talk  of  my  elders  and  betters  that  Mary  was  very 
pretty.  People  said  it  was  a  real  joy  to  see  a  creature 
so  young,  so  smiling,  so  pink  and  white,  so  graciously 
happy — in  those  degenerate  days.  I  myself  can  see 
now  that  she  must  have  been  very  pretty  indeed.  Her 
eyes,  for  instance,  so  blue  in  the  blue,  so  white  in  the 
white,  can't  have  changed  at  all — unless,  perhaps,  the 
shadows  deep  within  the  blue  are  deeper  than  they  were 
when  she  was  a  girl.  But  even  to-day  you  would  have 
to  travel  far  to  see  another  middle-aged  woman  so 
smooth  of  forehead,  so  cleanly-cut  of  feature,  so  gener 
ally  comely. 

But  if  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world  that  I  had 
formed  no  conclusions  upon  at  the  age  of  six  it  was 
female  loveliness.  To  cuddle  against  a  gentle  mother 
when  bogies  were  about  had  nothing  whatsoever  to  do 
with  that  gentle  mother's  personal  appearance.  To 
strike  valiantly  at  Mary's  face  when  the  hot  water  and 
the  scrubbing-brush  were  going  had  nothing  to  do 
with  the  prettiness  thereof.  Nor  did  I  consider  my 
sister  the  less  presentable  by  a  black  eye  given  and 
taken  in  the  game  of  Little  John  and  Robin  Hood 
upon  a  log  in  the  Baychester  woods.  And  indeed  I 

76 


THE  BOOT 

have  been  told,  and  believe  it  to  be  a  fact,  that  the 
beauty  before  whom  swelled  my  very  earliest  tides  of 
affection  was  a  pug-nosed,  snaggle-toothed,  freckled- 
faced  tomboy,  who  if  she  had  been  but  a  jot  uglier 
might  have  been  exhibited  to  advantage  in  a  dime 
museum.  Peace,  old  agitations,  peace! 

Everybody  knew  the  Rexes,  as  in  any  part  of  the 
world,  for  many  years  stable,  everybody  knows  every 
body  else.  In  Westchester,  before  great  strips  of  wood 
land  and  water  became  Pelham  Bay  Park,  before  the 
Swedes  came,  and  the  Irish,  and  the  Italians,  and  the 
Germans — in  other  words,  before  land  boomed — there 
had  always  been  an  amiable  and  uninjunctionable 
stability.  Families  had  lived,  for  well  or  ill,  in  the 
same  houses  for  years  and  years.  So  long  had  the 
portraits  hung  in  the  rich  men's  houses  that  if  you 
moved  them  it  was  to  disclose  a  brightly-fresh  rec 
tangle  upon  the  wall  behind.  The  box  in  the  poor 
man's  yard  had  been  tended  by  the  poor  man's  great- 
grand  female  relatives.  Ours  was  a  vicinage  of  memory 
and  proper  pride.  We  would  no  more  have  thought 
of  inquiring  into  the  morals  of  this  public  house  or  that 
than  of  expunging  the  sun  from  the  heavens.  They 
had  always  been  there. 

There  was  a  man  who  left  his  wife  and  little  children 
to  fight  against  King  George.  He  could  think  of  but 
one  thing  to  protect  them  against  vagrant  soldiers  of 

77 


THE  BOOT 

either  side,  and  that  was  to  carve  upon  certain  boards 
(which  he  nailed  to  the  trees  here  and  there  along  the 
boundaries  of  his  farm): 

BEWARR  OF  THE  BOOLE  DOGGES 

When  I  was  a  child  one  of  these  signs  still  remained 
— at  the  left,  just  beyond  Pelham  Bridge.  And  people 
used  to  laugh  and  point  at  the  great  trees  and  say  that 
because  of  the  sign  the  British  had  never  dared  to  tres 
pass  and  cut  down  the  timber.  Now  the  man  had 
never  owned  a  Boole  Dogge,  nor  had  any  of  his  de 
scendants.  I  doubt  if  there  was  ever  one  on  the  prem 
ises,  unless  latterly,  perhaps,  there  has  been  a  French 
bulldog  or  so  let  out  of  a  passing  automobile  to  enjoy 
a  few  moments  of  unconventional  liberty.  But  the 
bluff  had  always  held  good.  As  my  mother  used  to 
say:  "I  know — but  then  there  may  be  a  bulldog  now." 
And  that  farm  was  always  out  of  bounds.  I  relate  this 
for  two  reasons — to  show  how  stable  and  conservative 
a  neighborhood  was  ours,  and  because  on  that  very 
farm,  and  chosen  for  the  very  reason  which  I  have 
related,  stood  the  hollow  oak  which  is  to  play  its 
majestic  part  in  this  modest  narrative. 

The  apple  orchards  of  the  Boole  Dogge  Farm  ran 
southerly  to  a  hickory  wood,  the  hickory  wood  to  an 
oak  wood,  the  oak  wood  to  thick  scrub  of  all  sorts,  the 
scrub  to  the  sedge,  and  the  sedge  to  the  salt  mud  at 

78 


THE  BOOT 

low  tide,  and  at  high  to  the  bassy  waters  themselves 
of  inmost  Pelham  Bay.  On  the  right  was  the  long, 
black  trestle  of  the  Harlem  River  Branch  Railroad,  on 
the  left  the  long-curved  ironwork  of  Pelham  Bridge. 
And  the  farm,  promontoried  with  its  woods  and  thick 
cover  between  these  boundaries  and  more  woods  to  the 
north,  was  an  overgrown,  run-down,  desolate,  lonely, 
deserted  old  place.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  old  sign 
that  said  "Bewarr,"  it  must  have  been  a  great  play 
ground  for  children — for  their  picnics,  and  their  hide- 
and-seeks,  and  their  games  at  Indians.  But  the  fero 
cious  animals  imagined  by  the  old  Revolutionary  were 
as  efficacious  against  trespassers  as  a  cordon  of  police. 
And  I  remember  to  this  day,  I  can  feel  still,  the  very 
thrill  of  that  wild  surmise  with  which  I  followed  Mary 
and  my  sister  over  the  stone  wall  and  into  those  for 
bidden  and  forbidding  acres  for  the  first  time.  But 
that  comes  later. 

It  was  my  sister  who  told  me  that  Mary  was  engaged 
to  be  married.  But  I  had  noticed  for  some  days  how 
the  neighbors  went  out  of  their  way  to  accost  her  upon 
our  walks;  to  banter  her  kindly,  to  shake  hands  with 
her,  to  wag  their  heads  and  look  chin-chucks  even  if 
they  gave  none.  Her  face  wore  a  beautiful  mantling 
red  for  hours  at  a  time.  And  instead  of  being  made 
more  sedate  by  her  responsible  and  settling  prospects 
she  shed  the  half  of  her  years,  which  were  not  many, 

79 


THE  BOOT 

and  became  the  most  delightful  romp,  a  furious  runner 
of  races,  swiftest  of  pursuers  at  tag,  most  subtle  and 
sudden  of  hiders  and  poppers  out,  and  full  to  the  arch, 
scarlet  brim  of  loud,  clear  laughter. 

It  was  late  spring  now,  lilacs  in  all  the  dooryards, 
all  the  houses  being  cleaned  inside  out,  and  they  were 
to  be  married  in  the  fall.  They  had  picked  the  little 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  Skinnertown  not  far  from 
the  Tory  oak,  in  which  they  were  to  live.  And  often 
we  made  it  the  end  of  an  excursion,  and  played  at 
games  devised  by  Mary  to  improve  the  appearance 
of  the  little  yard.  We  gathered  up  in  emulation  old, 
broken  china  and  bottles,  and  made  them  into  a  heap 
at  the  back;  we  cleared  the  yard  of  brush  and  dead 
wood,  and  pulled  up  weeds  by  the  hundred- weight, 
and  set  out  a  wild  rose  or  two  and  more  valuable,  if 
less  lovely,  plants  that  people  gave  Mary  out  of  real 
gardens. 

Will  Braddish,  a  painter  by  trade,  met  us  one  day 
with  brushes  and  a  great  bucket  of  white  paint,  and, 
while  he  and  Mary  sat  upon  the  doorstep  talking  in 
low  tones  or  directing  in  high,  Ellen  and  I  made  shift 
to  paint  the  little  picket-fence  until  it  was  white  as 
new  snow.  At  odd  times  Braddish  himself  painted  the 
little  house  (it  was  all  of  old-fashioned,  long  shingles) 
inside  and  out,  and  a  friend  of  his  got  up  on  the  roof 
with  mortar  and  a  trowel,  and  pointed-up  the  brick 

80 


THE  BOOT 

chimney;  and  my  father  and  Mr.  Sturtevant  contrib 
uted  a  load  of  beautiful,  sleek,  rich  pasture  sod  and 
the  labor  to  lay  it;  so  that  by  midsummer  the  little 
domain  was  the  spickest,  spannest  little  dream  of  a 
home  in  the  whole  county.  The  young  couple  bought 
furniture,  and  received  gifts  of  furniture,  prints,  an  Al 
range,  a  tiny,  shiny,  desirable  thing;  and  the  whole 
world  and  all  things  in  it  smiled  them  in  the  face. 
Braddish,  as  you  will  have  guessed,  was  a  prosperous 
young  man.  He  was  popular,  too,  and  of  good  habits. 
People  said  only  against  him  that  he  was  impulsive 
and  had  sudden  fits  of  the  devil's  own  temper,  but  that 
he  recovered  from  these  in  a  twinkling  and  before  any 
thing  came  of  them.  And  even  the  merest  child  could 
see  that  he  thought  the  world  of  Mary.  I  have  seen 
him  show  her  little  attentions  such  as  my  sister  retailed 
me  of  personages  in  fairy  stories  and  chivalric  histories. 
Once  when  there  was  a  puddle  to  cross  he  made  a 
causeway  of  his  coat,  like  another  Raleigh,  and  Mary 
crossed  upon  it,  like  one  in  a  trance  of  tender  happiness, 
oblivious  of  the  fact  that  she  might  easily  have  gone 
around  and  saved  the  coat.  His  skin  and  his  eyes 
were  almost  as  clear  as  Mary's  own,  and  he  had  a  bold, 
dashing,  independent  way  with  him. 

But  it  wasn't  often  that  Braddish  could  get  free  of 
his  manifold  occupations:  his  painting  contracts  and 
his  political  engagements.  He  was  by  way  of  growing 

81 


THE  BOOT 

very  influential  in  local  politics,  and  people  predicted 
an  unstintedly  successful  life  for  him.  He  was  con 
sidered  unusually  clever  and  able.  His  manners  were 
superior  to  his  station,  and  he  had  done  a  deal  of  hete 
rogeneous  reading.  But,  of  course,  whenever  it  was 
possible  he  was  with  Mary  and  helped  her  out  with 
looking  after  Ellen  and  me.  My  mother,  who  was 
very  timid  about  tramps,  looked  upon  these  occasions 
as  in  the  nature  of  real  blessings.  There  was  nowhere 
in  the  countryside  that  we  children  might  not  safely 
venture  with  Will  Braddish  strolling  behind.  He  loved 
children — he  really  did,  a  rare,  rare  thing — and  he 
was  big,  and  courageous,  and  strong,  and  quick.  He 
was  very  tactful,  too,  on  these  excursions  and  talked 
a  good  part  of  the  time  for  the  three  of  us,  instead  of 
for  Mary  alone.  Nice,  honest  talk  it  was,  too,  with 
just  enough  robbers,  and  highwaymen,  and  lions,  and 
Indians  to  give  it  spice.  But  all  the  adventures  through 
which  he  passed  us  were  open  and  honest.  How  the 
noble  heroes  did  get  on  in  life,  and  how  the  wicked  vil 
lains  did  catch  it! 

I  remember  once  we  were  returning  home  past  the 
Boole  Dogge  Farm,  and  Braddish,  wiping  his  brow, 
for  it  was  cruelly  hot,  seated  himself  as  bold  as  could 
be  on  the  boundary  wall.  The  conversation  had  been 
upon  robbers,  and  how  they  always,  always  got 
caught. 

82 


THE  BOOT 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Braddish  said,  "where  they 
hide.  Take  this  old  farm.  It's  the  best  hiding-place 
in  this  end  of  the  county — woods,  and  marshes,  and 
old  wells,  and  bushes,  and  hollows " 

We  asked  him  in  much  awe  if  he  had  ever  actually 
set  foot  on  the  place. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  said;  "when  I  was  a  boy  I  knew 
every  inch  of  it;  I  was  always  hunting  and  trapping, 
and  looking  for  arrowheads.  And  that  was  the  best 
country.  Once  I  spent  a  night  in  the  woods  yonder. 
The  bridge  was  open  to  let  a  tugboat  through  and  got 
stuck  so  they  couldn't  shut  it,  and  there  was  no  way 
back  to  Westchester  except  over  the  railroad  trestle, 
and  my  father  had  said  that  I  could  go  anywhere  I 
pleased  except  on  that  trestle.  And  so  here  I  was 
caught,  and  it  came  on  to  blither  and  blow,  and  I 
found  an  oak  tree,  all  hollow  like  a  little  house,  and  I 
crept  in  and  fell  asleep  and  never  woke  till  daylight. 
My  father  said  next  time  I  could  come  home  by  the 
trestle,  or  he'd  know  the  reason  why." 

"But,"  said  I,  "weren't  you  afraid  the  bulldogs 
would  get  you?" 

"Now,  if  they'd  said  bull-terriers,"  he  said,  "I  might 
have  had  my  doubts,  but  a  bulldog's  no  more  danger 
ous  than  a  toadfish.  He's  like  my  old  grandma. 
What  teeth  he  has  don't  meet.  And  besides,"  he  said, 
"there  weren't  any  bulldogs  on  that  farm.  And  I 

83 


THE  BOOT 

don't  believe  there  ever  were.  Now,  I'm  not  sure, 
sonny,"  he  said,  "but  you  climb  up  here " 

I  climbed  upon  the  wall,  and  he  held  me  so  that  I 
should  not  fall. 

"Do  you  see,"  said  he,  "way  down  yonder  over  the 
tops  of  the  trees  a  dead  limb  sticking  up?" 

I  saw  it  finally. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I'd  stake  something  that  that's 
a  part  of  the  old  hollow  oak.  Shall  we  go  and  see?" 

But  Mary  told  him  that  the  farm  was  out  of  bounds. 
And  he  thought  a  moment,  and  then  swung  his  legs 
over  the  wall. 

"I  won't  be  two  minutes,"  he  said.  "I'd  like  to 
see  if  I'm  right  —  it's  fifteen  years  ago — "  And  he 
strode  off  across  the  forbidden  farm  to  the  woods. 
When  he  came  back  he  said  that  he  had  been  right, 
and  that  nothing  had  changed  much.  He  tossed  me 
a  flint  arrowhead  that  he  had  picked  up — he  was  al 
ways  finding  things,  and  we  went  on  again. 

When  we  got  to  the  middle  of  Pelham  Bridge  we  all 
stopped  and  leaned  against  the  railing  and  looked 
down  into  the  swift,  swirling  current.  Braddish  tore 
an  old  envelop  into  little  pieces  and  dropped  them 
overboard  by  pairs,  so  that  we  might  see  which  would 
beat  the  other  to  a  certain  point. 

But  the  shadows  began  to  grow  long  now  and  pres 
ently  Braddish  had  to  leave  us  to  attend  a  meeting  in 

84 


THE  BOOT 

Westchester,  and  I  remember  how  he  turned  and 
waved,  just  before  the  Boulevard  dips  to  the  causeway, 
and  how  Mary  recollected  something  that  she  had 
meant  to  say  and  ran  after  him  a  little  way  calling, 
and  he  did  not  hear.  And  she  came  back  laughing, 
and  red  in  the  face,  and  breathing  quick. 

Two  days  later  my  father,  who  had  started  for  the 
early  train,  came  driving  back  to  the  house  as  if  he 
had  missed  it.  But  he  said,  no,  and  his  face  was  very 
grave — he  had  heard  a  piece  of  news  that  greatly  con 
cerned  Mary,  and  he  had  come  back  to  tell  her.  He 
went  into  the  study  with  my  mother,  and  presently 
they  sent  for  Mary  and  she  went  in  to  them. 

A  few  minutes  later,  through  the  closed  door,  Ellen 
and  I  heard  a  sudden,  wailing  cry. 

Poor  Braddish,  it  seems,  in  one  of  his  ungovernable 
tempers  had  shot  a  man  to  death,  and  fled  away  no 
one  knew  whither. 


II 

The  man  killed  was  named  Hagan.  He  was  a  red- 
faced,  hard-drinking  brute,  not  without  sharp  wits 
and  a  following — or  better,  a  heeling.  There  had  been 
bad  blood  between  him  and  Braddish  for  some  time 
over  political  differences  of  opinion  and  advancement. 
But  into  these  Hagan  had  carried  a  circumstantial,  if 

85 


THE  BOOT 

degenerate,  imagination  that  had  grown  into  and  wor 
ried  Braddish's  peace  of  mind  like  a  cancer.  Details 
of  the  actual  killing  were  kept  from  us  children.  But  I 
gathered,  since  the  only  witnesses  of  the  shooting  were 
heelers  of  Hagan's,  that  it  could  in  no  wise  be  con 
strued  into  an  out-and-out  act  of  self-defence,  and  so 
far  as  the  law  lay  things  looked  bad  for  Braddish. 

That  he  had  not  walked  into  the  sheriff's  office  to 
give  himself  up  made  it  look  as  if  he  himself  felt  the  un- 
justifiability  of  his  act,  and  it  was  predicted  that  when 
he  was  finally  captured  it  would  be  .0  serve  a  life  sen 
tence  at  the  very  least.  The  friends  of  the  late  Hagan 
would  hear  of  nothing  less  than  hanging.  It  was  a 
great  pity  (this  was  my  father's  attitude):  Hagan  was 
a  bad  lot  and  a  good  riddance;  Braddish  was  an  ex 
cellent  young  man,  except  for  a  bit  of  a  temper,  and 
here  the  law  proposed  to  revenge  the  bad  man  upon 
the  other  forever  and  ever.  And  it  was  right  and 
proper  for  the  law  so  to  do,  more's  the  pity.  But  it 
was  not  Braddish  that  would  be  hit  hardest,  said  my 
father,  and  here  came  in  the  inscrutable  hand  of 
Providence — it  was  Mary. 

After  the  first  outburst  of  feeling  she  had  accepted 
her  fate  with  a  stanch  reserve  and  went  on  with  her 
duties  much  as  usual.  One  ear  was  always  close  to 
the  ground,  you  might  say,  to  hear  the  first  rumor  of 
Braddish,  either  his  capture  or  his  whereabouts,  that 

86 


THE  BOOT 

she  might  fly  to  him  and  comfort  him,  but  the  rest  of 
her  faculties  remained  in  devoted  attendance  on  my 
sister  and  me.  Only  there  showed  in  them  now  and 
then  a  kind  of  tigerish  passionateness,  as  when  I  fell 
off  the  sea-wall  among  the  boulders  and  howled  so 
dismally.  She  leaped  down  after  and  caught  me  to 
her  in  the  wildest  distress,  and  even  when  I  stopped 
howling  could  not  seem  to  put  me  down.  Indeed,  she 
held  me  so  tight  that  if  any  of  my  bones  had  been 
cracked  by  the  tumble  she  must  have  finished  by 
breaking  them.  The  pathos  of  her  efforts  to  romp 
with  us  as  in  happier  days  was  lost  upon  me,  I  am 
happy  to  say.  Nor  did  I,  recalling  to  her  what  Brad- 
dish  had  said  of  robbers  being  inevitably  caught,  real 
ize  that  I  was  stabbing  her  most  cruelly.  For  she  was, 
or  tried  to  be,  firm  in  the  belief  that  Braddish  would 
succeed  where  all  others  had  failed.  She  had  asked 
my  father  what  would  happen  if  Braddish  got  clean 
out  of  the  United  States,  and  he,  hoping,  I  suppose,  to 
be  of  indirect  use  to  the  young  couple  for  whom  he 
was  heartily  sorry,  made  her  out  a  list  of  countries,  so 
far  as  he  knew  them,  wherein  there  was  no  extradition. 
My  father  hoped,  I  fondly  believe,  that  she  would  get 
the  list  to  Braddish  for  his  guidance,  conjecturing 
rightly  that  if  Braddish  made  his  whereabouts  known 
to  anybody  it  would  be  to  Mary.  But  as  to  that,  ten 
days  passed  before  Mary  knew  a  jot  more  of  it  than 

87 


THE  BOOT 

another.  And  I  must  believe  that  it  came  to  her  then 
entirely  by  inspiration. 

We  were  passing  the  Boole  Dogge  Farm,  my  sister 
and  I,  intent  upon  seeing  which  of  us  could  take  the 
most  hops  without  putting  the  held-up  foot  to  the 
ground,  when  suddenly  Mary,  who  had  been  strolling 
along  laughing  at  us,  stopped  short  in  her  tracks  and 
turned,  and  stood  looking  over  the  green  treetops  to 
where  the  gaunt,  dead  limb  of  the  hollow  oak  thrust 
sharply  up  from  among  them.  But  we  had  hopped  on 
for  quite  a  piece  before  we  noticed  that  she  no  longer 
went  alongside.  So  we  stopped  that  game  and  ran  back 
to  her.  What  was  it  ?  Had  she  seen  a  rabbit  ?  She 
laughed  and  looked  very  wistful.  She  was  just  think 
ing,  children,  that  she  would  like  to  see  the  hollow  tree 
where  Will  had  passed  the  night.  She  was  not  excited 
— I  can  swear  to  that.  She  guessed  nothing  as  yet. 
Her  desire  was  really  to  the  tree — as  she  might  have 
coveted  one  of  Will's  baby  shoes,  or  anything  that 
had  been  his.  She  had  already,  poor  girl,  begun  to 
draw,  here  and  there,  upon  the  past  for  sustenance. 

First,  she  charged  Ellen  and  me  to  wait  for  her  in 
the  road.  But  we  rebelled.  We  swore  (most  falsely) 
that  we  were  afeard.  Since  the  teeth  of  bulldogs  no 
longer  met,  we  desired  passionately  to  explore  the  for 
bidden  farm,  and  had,  indeed,  extracted  a  free  com 
mission  from  my  father  so  to  do,  but  my  mother  had 

88 


THE  BOOT 

procrastinated  and  put  us  off.  We  laid  these  facts 
before  Mary,  and  she  said,  very  well,  if  our  father  had 
said  we  might  go  on  the  farm,  go  we  might.  He  would, 
could  and  must  make  it  right  with  our  mother.  And 
so,  Mary  leading,  we  climbed  the  wall. 

Bulldogs'  teeth  or  no  bulldogs'  teeth,  my  ancient 
fear  of  the  place  descended  upon  me,  and  had  a  rabbit 
leaped  or  a  cat  scuttled  among  the  bushes  I  must  have 
been  palsied.  The  going  across  to  the  woods  was 
waist  high  with  weeds  and  brambles,  damp  and  rank 
under  foot.  Whole  squadrons  of  mosquitoes  arose  and 
hung  about  us  in  clouds,  with  a  humming  sound  as 
of  sawmills  far  away.  But  this  was  long  before  you 
took  your  malaria  of  mosquitoes,  and  we  minded 
them  no  more  than  little  children  mind  them  to-day. 
Indeed,  I  can  keep  peacefully  still  even  now  to  watch  a 
mosquito  batten  and  fatten  upon  my  hand,  to  see  his 
ravenous,  pale  abdomen  swell  to  a  vast  smug  redness 
— that  physiological,  or  psychological,  moment  for 
which  you  wait  ere  you  burst  him. 

The  forbidden  farm  had,  of  course,  its  thousand 
novelties.  I  saw  prickly  pears  in  blossom  upon  a 
ledge  of  rock;  a  great  lunar-moth  resting  drowsily, 
almost  drunkenly,  in  the  parasol  shade  of  a  wild- 
carrot  blossom;  here  was  the  half  of  a  wagon  wheel, 
the  wood  rotted  away,  and  there  in  the  tangle  an 
ancient  cistern  mouth  of  brick,  the  cistern  filled  to  the 

89 


THE  BOOT 

brim  with  alluring  rubbish.  My  sister  sprang  with  a 
gurgle  of  delight  to  catch  a  garter  snake,  which  eluded 
her;  and  a  last  year's  brier,  tough  and  humorously 
inclined,  seized  upon  Mary  by  the  skirts  and  legs,  so 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  five  minutes  and  piercing 
screams  of  merriment  to  cast  her  loose  again.  But 
soon  we  drew  out  of  the  hot  sunshine  into  the  old 
orchard  with  its  paltry  display  of  deformed,  green, 
runt  apples,  and  its  magnificent  columns  and  canopies 
of  poison  ivy — that  most  beautiful  and  least  amiable 
of  our  indigenous  plants;  and  then  we  got  among  scale- 
bark  hickories,  and  there  was  one  that  had  been  fluted 
from  top  to  bottom  by  a  stroke  of  lightning;  and  here 
the  little  red  squirrels  were  most  unusually  abundant 
and  indignant;  and  there  was  a  catbird  that  miauled 
exactly  like  a  cat;  and  there  was  a  spring  among  the 
roots  of  one  great  tree,  and  a  broken  teacup  half  buried 
in  the  sand  at  the  bottom. 

We  left  the  hickories  and  entered  among  the  oaks, 
and  here  was  the  greatest  to-do  imaginable  to  find  the 
one  that  was  hollow.  Ellen  went  to  the  left,  I  to  the 
right,  and  Mary  down  the  middle.  Whenever  I  came 
to  an  unusually  big  tree  I  tiptoed  around  the  trunk, 
goggle-eyed,  expecting  the  vasty  hollow  to  open  before 
me.  And  I  am  sure  that  Ellen,  whom  I  had  presently 
lost  sight  of,  behaved  in  the  same  way.  Mary  also 
had  disappeared,  and  feeling  lonely  all  of  a  sudden  I 

90 


THE  BOOT 

called  to  her.  She  answered  a  moment  later  in  a 
strange  voice.  I  thought  that  she  must  have  fallen 
and  hurt  herself;  but  when  I  found  her  she  was  cheer 
ful  and  smiling.  She  was  standing  with  her  back  to 
a  snug  hollow  in  the  vast  stem  of  the  very  oak  we  had 
been  looking  for. 

"This  is  it,"  she  said,  and  turned  and  pointed  to  the 
hollow.  "Where's  Ellen?" 

"Here,  Ellen,"  I  called,  "here— we've  found  it!" 

Then  Ellen  came  scampering  through  the  wood; 
and  first  I  climbed  into  the  hollow  and  curled  up  to 
see  what  sort  of  a  night  I  might  have  of  it,  and  then  I 
climbed  out  and  Ellen  climbed  in — and  then  both  in 
at  once,  and  we  kept  house  for  a  while  and  gave  a 
couple  of  dinners  and  tea  parties.  And  then  quar 
reled  about  the  probable  size  of  Friar  Tuck,  and  Ellen 
drew  the  line  at  further  imaginings  and  left  me  alone  in 
the  hollow. 

This  extended  all  the  way  up  the  main  trunk  and  all 
but  out  through  the  top.  Here  and  there  it  pierced 
through  the  outer  bark,  so  that  slants  of  pale  light 
served  to  carry  the  eye  up  and  up  until  it  became  lost 
in  inky  blackness.  Now  and  then  dust  and  little 
showers  of  dry  rot  descended  softly  upon  the  upturned 
face;  and  if  you  put  your  ear  close  to  the  wood  you 
could  hear,  as  through  the  receiver  of  a  telephone, 
things  that  were  going  on  among  the  upper  branches; 

91 


THE  BOOT 

as  when  the  breeze  puffed  up  and  they  sighed  and 
creaked  together.  I  could  hear  a  squirrel  scampering 
and  a  woodpecker  at  work — or  so  I  guessed,  though  it 
sounded  more  like  a  watch  ticking.  I  made  several 
essays  to  climb  up  the  hollow,  but  the  knotholes  and 
crevices,  and  odds  and  ends  of  support,  were  too  far 
removed  from  each  other  for  the  length  of  my  limbs, 
and,  furthermore,  my  efforts  seemed  to  shake  the 
whole  tree  and  bring  down  whole  smarting  showers 
of  dust  and  dry  rot  and  even  good-sized  fragments.  I 
got  up  a  few  feet,  lost  my  hold,  and  fell  into  the  soft, 
punky  nest  at  the  bottom. 

"Can't  you  climb  up?"  said  Ellen,  who  had  recov 
ered  her  temper  by  now.  "Because  somebody  has 
climbed  up  and  stuck  an  o\'  shoe  out  of  a  knothole 
way  up." 

I  climbed  out  of  the  hollow  and  followed  her  point. 
Sure  enough — thirty  feet  or  so  from  the  ground  the  toe 
of  a  much-used  leather  boot  stuck  out  through  a  knot 
hole. 

Mary  refused  to  take  an  interest  in  the  boot.  It  was 
high  time  we  went  home.  She  herself  had  a  head 
ache.  Our  mother  would  be  angry  with  her  for  tak 
ing  us  on  the  forbidden  farm.  She  was  sorry  she  had 
done  so.  No,  she  wasn't  angry.  We  were  good  chil 
dren;  she  loved  us.  Wouldn't  we  come? 

"I'll  tell  you,"  said  she,  and  her  face,  which  looked 
92 


THE  BOOT 

sick  and  pale,  colored,  "if  you'll  come  now,  and  hurry, 
we'll  just  have  time  to  stop  on  the  bridge  and  have 
some  races." 

And  sure  enough,  when  we  got  to  the  bridge  Mary 
produced  a  stained  sheet  of  paper,  and  tore  it  quickly 
into  little  bits  of  pieces  (we  were  pressed  for  time)  and 
launched  pair  after  pair  of  sea-going  racers  upon  the 
swirling  tide. 

When  the  last  pair  were  gone  upon  their  merry 
career  she  drew  a  long  breath,  and  seemed  as  one 
relieved  of  a  weight. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "you  needn't  tell  your  mother 
where  youVe  been — unless  she  asks  you.  Do  you 
think  that  would  be  wrong?" 

I  had  never  known  Mary  to  suggest  deceit  of  any 
kind. 

"If  you  think  it  would  get  you  into  trouble,"  said 
my  sister,  aged  eight,  very  stiffly,  "why,  of  course,  we 
won't  say  anything." 

Mary  was  troubled.  Finally  she  drew  a  deep 
breath  and  flung  out  her  hands. 

"Of  course,  it  would  be  wrong  not  to  tell,"  she  said. 
"You  must  tell  her." 

But  by  good  fortune  we  met  my  father  first  and  told 
him. 

"And  papa,"  said  Ellen,  she  had  been  swung  to 
his  shoulder  and  there  rode  like  a  princess  upon  a 

93 


THE  BOOT 

genii,  "what  do  you  think,  way  up  the  trunk  there 
was  an  old  shoe  sticking  out  of  a  knothole,  and  we  all 
thought  that  somebody  must  have  climbed  up  inside 
and  put  it  there.  But  brother  couldn't  climb  up  be 
cause  he's  too  little,  and  Mary  wouldn't  try,  and  we 
thought  maybe  Sunday  you'd  go  with  us  and  see  if 
you  could  climb  up." 

I  don't  know  why  my  father  happened  to  take  the 
line  that  he  did;  he  may  have  seen  something  in 
Mary's  face  that  we  children  would  not  be  likely  to 
see.  He  laughed  first,  and  told  us  a  story. 

It  was  about  some  children  that  he  had  once  known, 
who  had  seen  a  boot  sticking  out  of  a  tree,  just  as  we 
had  done,  and  how  a  frightful  old  witch  had  come 
along,  and  told  them  that  if  they  went  away  for  a  year 
and  a  day  and  didn't  say  a  word  about  the  boot  to 
any  one,  and  then  went  back,  they  would  by  that  time 
have  grown  sufficiently  to  climb  up  and  get  the  boot, 
and  that  they  would  find  it  full  of  gold  pieces.  But 
if,  during  the  year  and  the  day,  they  so  much  as  men 
tioned  the  boot  to  any  one  but  their  father,  they  would 
find  it  full  of  the  most  dreadful  black  and  yellow  spi 
ders  which  would  chase  them  all  the  way  to  Jericho, 
and  bite  their  fat  calves  every  few  steps. 

"This,"  said  he,  "may  be  that  kind  of  a  boot.  Now 
promise  not  to  talk  about  it  for  a  year  and  a  day — 
not  even  to  me — and  at  the  end  of  that  time,  why 

94 


THE  BOOT 

we'll  all  go  and  see  what's  in  it.  No,"  he  said,  "you 
mustn't  go  to  look  at  it  every  now  and  then — that 
would  spoil  the  charm.  Let  me  see.  This  is  the 
twenty-eighth — a  year  and  a  day — hum."  And  he 
made  his  calculations.  Then  he  said:  "By  the  way, 
Mary,  don't  you  and  the  children  ever  get  hungry 
between  meals  ?  If  you  were  to  take  bread  and  meat, 
and  make  up  sandwiches  to  take  on  your  excursions, 
they'd  never  be  missed.  I'd  see  to  it,"  he  said,  "that 
they  weren't  missed.  Growing  children,  you  know." 
And  he  strode  on,  Ellen  riding  on  his  shoulder  like  a 
princess  on  her  genii. 


Ill 

Ellen  and  I  were  very  firm  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  the  boot  in  the  oak  tree;  and  we  had  two  picnics 
in  the  hollow  and  played  for  hours  in  the  adjoining 
woods  without  once  looking  up.  Mary  had  become 
very  strict  with  us  about  scattering  papers  and  egg 
shells  at  our  out-of-door  spreads;  and  whatever  frag 
ments  of  food  were  left  over  she  would  make  into  a 
neat  package  and  hide  away  under  a  stone;  but  in 
other  matters  she  became  less  and  less  precise:  as, 
for  instance,  she  left  Ellen's  best  doll  somewhere  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  hollow  oak,  and  had  to  go  all 
the  way  back  for  it  in  the  dusk;  and  another  time 

95 


THE  BOOT 

(we  had  also  been  to  the  store  at  Bartow  for  yeast) 
she  left  her  purse  that  had  two  months*  wages  in  it 
and  more,  but  wasn't  lucky  enough  to  find  that. 

It  was  considered  remarkable  on  all  hands  that 
Braddish  had  not  yet  been  caught.  Hagan's  heelers, 
who  swung  many  votes,  had  grown  very  sharp  with 
the  authorities,  and  no  efforts  were  spared  to  locate 
the  criminal  (he  was  usually  referred  to  as  the  "mur 
derer")  and  round  him  up.  Almost  daily,  for  a  time, 
we  were  constantly  meeting  parties  of  strange  men, 
strolling  innocently  about  the  country  at  large  or  pri 
vate  estates  as  if  they  were  looking  things  over  with  a 
view  to  purchase.  And  now  and  then  we  met  pairs 
of  huntsmen,  though  there  was  no  game  in  season, 
very  citified,  with  brand-new  shotguns,  and  knicker 
bockers,  and  English  deer-stalker  caps.  And  these 
were  accompanied  by  dogs,  neither  well  suited  nor 
broken  to  the  business  of  finding  birds  and  holding 
them.  There  was  one  pair  of  sportsmen  whose  make 
shift  was  a  dropsical  coach  dog,  very  much  spotted. 
And,  I  must  be  forgiven  for  telling  the  truth,  one  was 
followed,  venire  a  terre,  by  a  dachshund.  My  father, 
a  very  grave  man  with  his  jest,  said  that  these  were 
famous  detectives,  so  accoutred  as  not  to  excite  com 
ment.  And  their  mere  presence  in  it  was  enough  to 
assure  the  least  rational  that  Braddish  must  by  now 
have  fled  the  country.  "Their  business,"  he  said,  "is 

96 


THE  BOOT 

to  close  the  stable  door,  if  they  can  find  it,  and  mean 
while  to  spend  the  money  of  the  many  in  the  road- 
houses  of  the  few/' 

But  I  have  sometimes  thought  that  the  pseudo- 
sportsmen  were  used  to  give  Braddish  a  foolhardy 
sense  of  security,  so  that  other  secret-service  men,  less 
open  in  method  and  less  comic  in  aspect,  might  work 
unobserved.  Indeed,  it  turned  out  that  an  under- 
gardener  employed  by  Mrs.  Kirkbride,  our  neighbor, 
about  this  time,  a  shambling,  peaceful,  half-witted 
goat  of  a  man,  was  one  such ;  and  a  perfect  red-Indian 
upon  a  trail.  It  was  Mary  who  spotted  him.  He 
hung  about  our  kitchen  door  a  good  deal;  and  tried  to 
make  friends  with  her  and  sympathize  with  her.  But 
he  showed  himself  a  jot  too  eager,  and  then  a  jot  too 
peppery  when  she  did  not  fall  into  his  nets.  Mary 
told  my  father,  and  my  father  told  Mrs.  Kirkbride. 
Mrs.  Kirkbride  had  had  a  very  satisfactory  job  at 
painting  done  for  her  by  Braddish;  and  although  a 
law-abiding  woman,  she  did  not  propose  personally  to 
assist  the  law — even  by  holding  her  tongue.  So  she 
approached  the  under-gardener,  at  a  time  when  the 
head-gardener  and  the  coachman  were  in  hearing,  and 
she  said,  plenty  loud  enough  to  be  heard:  "Well, 
officer,  have  you  found  a  clew  yet  ?  Have  you  pumped 
my  coachman?  He  was  friends  with  Braddish,"  and 
so  on,  so  that  she  destroyed  that  man's  utility  for  that 

97 


THE  BOOT 

place  and  time.  But  others  were  more  fortunate. 
And  all  of  a  sudden  the  country  was  convulsed  with 
excitement  at  hearing  that  Braddish  had  been  seen  on 
the  Bartow  Road  at  night,  and  had  been  fired  at,  but 
had  made  good  his  escape  into  the  Boole  Dogge  Farm. 

Bloodhounds  were  at  once  sent  for.  I  remember 
that  my  father  stayed  up  from  town  that  thrilling 
morning,  and  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
house  looking  up  at  the  sky.  I  now  know  that  he  was 
conjuring  it  to  rain  with  all  his  power  of  pity— prayer 
maybe — though  I  think,  like  most  commuters,  he  was 
weak  on  prayer.  Anyhow,  rain  it  did.  The  sky  had 
been  overcast  for  two  days,  drawing  slowly  at  the 
great  beds  of  moisture  in  the  northeast,  and  that  morn 
ing,  accompanied  by  high  winds,  the  first  drops  fell 
and  became  presently  a  deluging  northeaster,  very  cold 
for  midsummer. 

As  chance  would  have  it,  there  had  been  a  false 
scent  down  on  Throgg's  Neck,  upon  which  the  near 
est  accessible  bloodhounds  had  been  employed.  So 
that  there  was  a  delay  in  locating  them,  and  fetching 
them  to  the  Boole  Dogge  Farm.  We  went  over  to  the 
Boulevard — my  father,  Ellen,  and  I — all  under  um 
brellas,  to  see  them  go  by.  They  were  a  sorry  pair  of 
animals,  and  very  weary  with  having  been  out  all 
night,  in  all  sorts  of  country,  upon  feet  more  accus 
tomed  to  the  smooth  asphalt  of  a  kennel.  But  there 

98 


THE  BOOT 

was  a  crowd  of  men  with  them,  some  in  uniform,  one 
I  remember  in  a  great  coat,  who  rode  upon  one  of  the 
old-fashioned,  high  bicycles,  and  there  was  a  show  of 
clubs  and  bludgeons,  and  one  man  wore  openly  upon 
his  hip  a  rusty,  blued  revolver,  and  on  the  whole  the 
little  procession  had  a  look  of  determination  and  of 
power  to  injure  that  was  rather  terrible.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  if  I  had  been  my  father  I 
would  not  have  taken  Ellen  and  me  to  see  them  go  by. 
But  why  not?  I  would  not  have  missed  it  for  king 
doms. 

By  the  time  the  pursuit  had  reached  the  Boole  Dogge 
Farm  so  much  rain  had  fallen  as  to  render  the  blood 
hounds'  noses  of  no  account.  Still  the  police  were  not 
deterred  from  beating  that  neck  of  land  with  great 
thoroughness  and  energy.  But  it  proved  to  be  the  old 
story  of  the  needle  in  the  haystack.  Either  they  could 
not  find  the  needle  or  there  was  no  needle  to  be  found. 
Of  course,  they  discovered  the  spring  with  the  broken 
cup,  and  the  hollow  oak,  and  made  sure  that  it  was 
here  that  Braddish  slept  at  night,  and  they  found 
other  traces  of  his  recent  habitation — an  ingenious 
snare  with  a  catbird  in  it,  still  warm;  the  deep,  inad 
vertent  track  of  a  foot  in  a  spot  of  bog;  but  of  the  man 
himself  neither  sight  nor  sound. 

In  the  afternoon,  the  rain  having  held  up  for  a  while, 
my  father  walked  over  to  the  farm  to  see  how  the 

99 


THE  BOOT 

hunt  was  progressing.  This,  I  think,  was  for  Mary's 
sake,  who  had  been  all  the  morning  in  so  terrible  a 
state  of  agitation  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  must  have 
news  for  better  or  worse,  or  die  of  suspense.  My 
father  was  not  away  longer  than  necessary.  He  re 
turned  as  he  had  gone,  wearing  a  cheerful,  incisive 
look  very  characteristic  of  him,  and  whistling  short 
snatches  of  tunes. 

He  said  that  the  beaters  were  still  at  work;  but  that 
they  were  wet  to  the  skin  and  the  heart  was  out  of 
them.  Yes.  They  would  keep  an  eye  on  the  place, 
but  they  were  pretty  well  convinced  that  the  bird  had 
flown.  If,  however,  the  bird  had  not  flown,  said  my 
father,  he  should  be  quick  about  it.  We  were  on  the 
front  porch  to  meet  my  father,  and  I  remember  he 
paused  and  looked  out  over  the  bay  for  some  time. 
It  was  roughish  with  occasional  white  caps,  and  had  a 
dreary,  stormy  look.  Our  rowboat,  moored  to  a  land 
ing  stage  or  float,  just  off  our  place,  was  straining  and 
tugging  at  her  rope. 

"That  boat  will  blow  loose,"  said  my  father,  "if 
she  isn't  pulled  up.  But  I'm  not  going  to  do  it.  I'm 
wet  enough  as  it  is. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  try,  sir?"  Mary  called. 

"What's  the  use?"  said  my  father.  "You'll  only 
spoil  your  clothes.  And,  besides,  the  boat's  old  and 
rotten.  She's  not  worth  two  dollars  for  kindling  wood. 

100 


THE 


I  rather  hope  she  does  blow  away,  so  as  to  provide 
me  with  a  much-needed  excuse  to  buy  a  better  one. 
The  oars,  I  see,  are  in  her.  Never  mind,  they're  too 
heavy.  I  never  liked  them." 

Then  he  put  his  arm  around  Ellen. 

"By  the  way,  Teenchy,"  said  he,  "your  old  boot  is 
still  sticking  out  of  the  oak  tree." 

"Oh,  papa,"  cried  Ellen,  "you  said  we  mustn't  talk 
about  it  —  or  it  would  be  full  of  spiders." 

"I  said  you  mustn't  talk  about  it,"  said  he.  "So 
don't.  Anyhow"  —  and  he  included  Mary  in  his  play 
ful  smile  —  "it's  still  there  —  so  make  the  most  of  that" 

He  turned  to  go  into  the  house,  and  then: 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  Mary,  '  said  he,  "you  have  not 
asked  for  your  wages  recently,  and  I  think  you  are 
owed  for  three  months.  If  you  will  come  to  the  study 
in  a  little  while  I  will  give  them  to  you."  He  was 
always  somewhat  quizzical.  "Would  you  rather  have 
cash  or  a  check?" 

Personally  I  didn't  know  the  difference,  and,  at  the 
time,  I  admired  Mary  exceedingly  for  being  able  to 
make  a  choice.  She  chose  cash. 

But  till  some  years  later  I  thought  she  must  have 
repented  this  decision,  for  not  long  after  she  went 
into  a  kind  of  mild  hysterics,  and  cried  a  good  deal, 
and  said  something  about  "such  kindness  —  this  —  side 
Heaven."  And  was  heard  to  make  certain  compari- 

101 


THE/:  BOOT 

sons  between  the  thoughtfulness  and  pitifulness  of  a 
certain  commuter  and  the  Christ. 

But  these  recollections  are  a  little  vague  in  my  head 
as  to  actual  number  of  tears  shed,  cries  uttered  and 
words  spoken.  But  I  do  know  for  an  incontestable 
fact  that  during  the  night,  just  as  my  father  had 
prophesied,  our  rowboat  was  blown  loose  by  the  north 
east  gale,  and  has  not  been  seen  from  that  day  to  this. 
And  I  know  that  when  I  woke  up  in  the  morning  and 
called  to  Mary  she  was  not  in  her  bed,  and  I  found  in 
mine,  under  the  pillow,  a  ridiculous  old-fashioned 
brooch,  that  I  had  ever  loved  to  play  with,  and  that 
had  been  Mary's  mother's. 

My  father  was  very  angry  about  Mary's  going. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  said;  "we  can't  pretend  to  con 
ceal  it!"  But  then  he  looked  out  over  Pelham  Bay, 
and  it  had  swollen  and  waxed  wrathful  during  the 
night,  and  was  as  a  small  ocean — with  great  waves 
and  billows  that  came  roaring  over  docks  and  sea 
walls.  And  then  his  temper  abated  and  he  said:  "Of 
course  she  would — any  woman  would — sense  or  no 
sense." 

And,  indeed,  the  more  I  know  of  women,  which  is 
to  say,  and  I  thank  God  for  it,  the  less  I  know  of  them, 
the  convinceder  am  I  that  my  father  was  right. 

In  other  words,  if  a  woman's  man  has  nine  chances 
in  ten  of  drowning  by  himself  she  will  go  with  him  so 

102 


THE  BOOT 

as  to  make  it  ten  chances,  and  a  certainty  of  her  be 
ing  there  whatever  happens.  And  so,  naturally,  man 
cannot  tolerate  the  thought  of  woman  getting  the  right, 
based  on  intelligence,  to  vote. 


IV 

Twenty-five  years  later  I  paid  Mary  and  Braddish 
a  pleasant  Saturday-to-Monday  visit  in  what  foreign 
country  it  is  not  necessary  to  state.  The  tiny  Skinner- 
town  house  of  their  earlier  ambition,  with  its  little 
yard,  had  now  been  succeeded  by  a  great,  roomy, 
rambling  habitation,  surrounded  by  thousands  of  acres 
sprinkled  with  flocks  of  fat,  grazing  sheep.  It  was  a 
grand,  rolling  upland  of  a  country  that  they  had  fled 
to;  cool,  summer  weather  all  the  year  round,  and  no 
mosquitoes.  Hospitable  smoke  curled  from  a  dozen 
chimneys;  shepherds  galloped  up  on  wiry  horses  and 
away  again;  scarlet  passion-vines  poured  over  roofs 
and  verandas  like  cataracts  of  glory;  and  there  was 
incessant  laughter  and  chatter  of  children  at  play. 

Of  their  final  flight  from  the  Boole  Dogge  Farm  in 
my  father's  boat,  across  the  bay  to  Long  Island  in  the 
teeth  of  the  northeaster,  I  now  first  heard  the  details; 
and  of  their  subsequent  hiding  among  swamps  and 
woods;  and  how,  when  it  had  seemed  that  they  must 
be  captured  and  Braddish  go  to  jail  forever  and  ever, 

103 


THE  BOOT 

Mary  thought  that  she  could  face  the  separation  more 
cheerfully  if  she  was  his  wife.  And  so  one  rainy  night 
they  knocked  upon  the  door  of  a  clergyman,  and  told 
him  their  story.  They  were  starving,  it  seems,  and  it 
was  necessary  to  look  about  for  mercy.  And,  as  luck 
would  have  it,  the  clergyman,  an  old  man,  had  offi 
ciated  at  the  wedding  of  Mary's  parents;  and  he  had 
had  some  trouble  in  his  day  with  the  law  about  a 
boundary  fence,  and  was  down  on  the  law.  And  he 
fed  them  and  married  them,  and  said  that  he  would 
square  matters  with  his  conscience — if  he  could.  And 
he  kept  them  in  his  attic  for  two  days,  which  was  their 
honeymoon — and  then — a  night  of  dogs  and  lanterns 
and  shouting — he  smuggled  them  off  to  the  swamps 
again,  and  presided  over  their  hiding  until  an  oppor 
tunity  came  to  get  them  aboard  a  tramp  ship — and 
that  was  all  there  was  to  it,  except  that  they  had  pros 
pered  and  been  happy  ever  since. 

I  asked  Mary  about  my  father's  part  in  it.  But 
she  gave  him  a  clean  bill. 

"He  put  two  and  two  together,"  she  said,  "and  he 
dropped  a  hint  or  two — and  he  paid  me  all  my  back 
wages  in  American  money,  and  he  made  me  a  hand 
some  present  in  English  gold,  but  he  never  talked 
things  over,  never  mentioned  Will's  name  even." 

"It  was  the  toe  of  my  boot,"  said  Will,  "sticking 
out  of  the  tree  that  made  him  guess  where  I  was. 

104 


THE  BOOT 

You  see,  I'd  climbed  up  in  the  hollow  to  hide,  and  to 
keep  there  without  moving  I  had  to  stick  my  foot  out 
through  a  knothole.  I  was  up  there  all  the  day  they 
tried  to  get  the  bloodhounds  after  me,  with  my  boot 
sticking  out.  And  they  were  beating  around  that 
tree  for  hours,  but  nobody  looked  up." 

"I've  always  wondered,"  said  I,  "why,  they  didn't 
send  a  man  up  inside  the  tree." 

"I've  always  thought,"  said  Will,  "that  nobody 
liked  to  propose  it  for  fear  he'd  be  elected  to  do  it  him 
self.  But  maybe  it  didn't  enter  anybody's  head.  Any 
how,  all's  well  that  ends  well." 

"Mary,"  I  said,  "do  you  remember  how  my  father 
told  Ellen  and  me  to  go  back  in  a  year  and  a  day,  and 
look  in  the  boot?" 

She  nodded. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "we  went — hand  in  hand — and  there 
was  still  a  boot  sticking  out.  And  I  climbed  up,  after 
several  failures,  and  got  it.  It  wasn't  full  of  gold, 
but  it  did  have  two  gold  pieces  in  it.  One  each." 

"What  a  memory  your  father  had,"  said  Mary; 
"he  never  forgot  anything." 

Later  I  was  talking  with  Will  alone,  and  I  asked 
him  why  he  had  run  away  in  the  first  place. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "I  had  no  chance  with  the  law. 
The  only  outsiders  who  saw  the  shooting  were  friends 
of  Hagan's;  there  was  bad  blood  between  us.  They'd 

105 


THE  BOOT 

sworn  to  do  for  me.  And  they  would.  I  shot  Hagan 
with  his  own  gun.  He  pulled  it  on  me,  and  I  turned 
it  into  him,  by  the  greatest  piece  of  quickness  and 
good  luck  that  ever  I  had.  And  somehow — somehow 
— I  couldn't  see  myself  swinging  for  that,  or  going  to 
prison  for  life.  And  I  saw  my  chance  and  took  it.  I 
told  the  whole  thing  to  the  minister  that  married  us; 
he  believed  me,  and  so  would  any  one  that  knew  me 
then — except  Hagan's  friends,  and  whatever  they  be 
lieved  they'd  have  sworn  the  opposite.  Do  you  think 
your  father  thought  I  was  a  bloody  murderer?  Look 
here,"  he  said,  "I  don't  know  just  how  to  put  it — it 
was  twenty-five  years  ago,  all  that — Mary'll  tell  you, 
if  you  ask  her,  that  she's  been  absolutely  happy  every 
minute  of  all  that  time — even  when  we  were  hiding  in 
swamps  and  starving.  Now  that  side  of  it  wouldn't 
have  entered  the  law's  head,  would  it?"  He  smiled 
very  peacefully.  "Out  here,  of  course,"  he  said,  "it's 
very  different.  Almost  everybody  here  has  gotten 
away  from  something  or  other.  And  mostly  we've 
done  well,  and  are  happy  and  self-respecting.  It's 
a  big  world,"  he  looked  out  affectionately  over  his 
rolling,  upland  acres,  "and  a  funny  world.  Did  Mary 
tell  you  that  I've  just  been  re-elected  sheriff?" 


106 


THE  DESPOILER 


THE  DESPOILER 

Forrest  paused  when  his  explorations  had  brought 
him  to  the  edge  of  the  beech  wood,  all  dappled  with 
golden  lights  and  umber  shadows,  and  stood  for  a 
time  brooding  upon  those  intimate  lawns  and  flowery 
gardens  that  seemed,  as  it  were,  but  roofless  extensions 
of  the  wide,  open  house. 

It  is  probable  that  his  brooding  had  in  it  an  esti 
mate  of  the  cost  of  these  things.  It  was  thus  that  he 
had  looked  upon  the  blooded  horses  in  the  river-fields 
and  the  belted  cattle  in  the  meadows.  It  was  thus 
that  his  grave  eyes  passed  beyond  the  gardens  and 
moved  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  house,  from  sill 
to  cornice,  relating  the  porticos  and  interminable  row 
of  French  windows  to  dollars  and  cents.  He  had,  of 
course,  been  of  one  mind,  and  now  he  was  of  two; 
but  that  octagonal  slug  of  California  minting,  by  which 
he  resolved  his  doubts,  fell  heads,  and  he  stepped  with 
an  acquiescent  reluctance  from  the  dappled  shadows 
into  the  full  sunlight  of  the  gardens  and  moved  slow 
ly,  with  a  kind  of  awkward  and  cadaverous  grand 
eur,  toward  the  house.  He  paused  by  the  sundial  to 

109 


THE  DESPOILER 

break  a  yellow  rose  from  the  vine  out  of  which  its 
fluted  supporting  column  emerged.  So  standing,  and 
regarding  the  rose  slowly  twirled  in  his  fingers,  he 
made  a  dark  contrast  to  the  brightly-colored  gardens. 
His  black  cape  hung  in  unbroken  lines  from  his  gaunt 
shoulders  to  his  knees,  and  his  face  had  the  modeling 
and  the  gentle  gloom  of  Dante's. 

The  rose  fell  from  his  hand,  and  he  moved  onward 
through  the  garden  and  entered  the  house  as  noncha 
lantly  as  if  it  had  been  his  own.  He  found  himself 
in  a  cool  dining-room,  with  a  great  chimney-piece  and 
beaded  white  paneling.  The  table  was  laid  for  seven, 
and  Forrest's  intuitive  good  taste  caused  his  eyes  to 
rest  with  more  than  passing  interest  upon  the  stately 
loving-cup,  full  of  roses,  that  served  for  a  centre-piece. 
But  from  its  rosy  garlands  caught  up  in  the  mouths  of 
demon-heads  he  turned  suddenly  to  the  portrait  over 
the  chimney-piece.  It  was  darker  and  -more  sedate 
than  the  pictures  to  which  Forrest  was  accustomed, 
but  in  effect  no  darker  or  more  sedate  than  himself. 
The  gentleman  of  the  portrait,  a  somewhat  pouchy- 
cheeked,  hook-nosed  Revolutionary,  in  whose  wooden 
and  chalky  hand  was  a  rolled  document,  seemed  to 
return  Forrest's  glance  with  a  kind  of  bored  courtesy. 

"That  is  probably  the  Signer,"  thought  Forrest,  and 
he  went  closer.  "A  great  buck  in  your  time,"  he  ap 
proved. 

110 


THE  DESPOILER 

The  butler  entered  the  dining-room  from  the  pan 
try,  and,  though  a  man  accustomed  to  emergencies, 
was  considerably  nonplussed  at  the  sight  of  the  stranger. 
That  the  stranger  was  a  bona  fide  stranger,  James, 
who  had  served  the  Ballins  for  thirty  years,  knew; 
but  what  manner  of  stranger,  and  whether  a  rogue  or 
a  man  upon  legitimate  business,  James  could  not  so 
much  as  guess. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  "were  you  look 
ing  for  some  one?" 

"Yes,"  said  Forrest,  perfectly  at  his  ease,  "and  no." 

"Shall  I  tell  Mr.  Ballin  that  you  are  here,  sir?" 

"  I  shall  find  him  for  myself,  thank  you,"  said  Forrest, 
and  he  moved  toward  an  open  door  that  seemed  to 
lead  into  the  hall. 

"By  the  way,"  he  said,  "there  will  be  an  extra  at 
luncheon." 

Very  stately  in  his  long,  black  cape,  and  with  his 
pensive  Dantesque  face,  Forrest  continued  on  his  slow 
progress  to  the  open  door  and  went  out  of  the  dining- 
room.  He  crossed  the  hall  with  half  an  eye  to  its  quiet 
tones  and  bowls  of  roses,  and  entered  a  room  of  bright 
chintz  with  a  pattern  of  cornflowers,  and  full  of  sun 
light.  It  was  a  very  spacious  room,  and  lively — a 
proper  link  between  the  gardens  and  the  house;  and 
here  were  many  photographs  in  silver  frames  of  smart 
men  and  women;  and  the  Sunday  papers  with  their 

111 


THE  DESPOILER 

colored  supplements  were  strewn  in  disorder  upon  the 
floor.  And  it  seemed  to  Forrest,  so  comfortable  and 
intimate  did  it  look,  as  if  that  room  had  been  a  part 
of  his  own  life.  Upon  the  blotter  of  a  writing-table 
sprawled  a  check-book  bound  in  yellow  leather.  And 
when  Forrest  saw  that,  he  smiled.  It  came  as  a  sur 
prise  that  the  teeth  in  that  careworn  face  should  be 
white  and  even.  And  in  those  rare  and  charming 
moments  of  his  smiling  he  looked  like  a  young  man 
who  has  made  many  engagements  with  life  which  he 
proposes  to  fulfil,  instead  of  like  a  man  for  whom  the 
curious  years  reserve  but  one  sensation  more. 

But  Forrest  did  not  remain  any  appreciable  time  in 
the  cheerful  living-room.  A  desire  to  explain  and  have 
it  all  over  with  was  upon  him;  and  he  passed,  rapidly 
now,  from  room  to  room,  until  in  a  far  corner  of  the 
house  he  entered  a  writing-room  furnished  in  severe 
simplicity  with  dark  and  dully-shining  rosewood.  This 
room  was  of  an  older  fashion  than  any  he  had  yet 
entered,  and  he  guessed  that  it  had  been  the  Signer's 
workshop  and  had  been  preserved  by  his  descendants 
without  change.  A  pair  of  flintlock  pistols,  glinting 
silver,  lay  upon  the  desk;  quill  pens  stood  in  a  silver 
cup  full  of  shot;  a  cramped  map,  drawn  and  colored 
by  hand  and  yellow  with  age,  hung  above  the  mantel 
and  purported,  in  bold  printing  with  flourishes,  to  be 
The  Proposed  Route  for  the  Erie  Canal.  Portraits  of 

112 


THE  DESPOILER 

General  Greene  and  Thomas  Jefferson,  by  Stuart,  also 
hung  upon  the  walls.  And  there  stood  upon  an  octag 
onal  table  a  bowl  of  roses. 

There  was  a  gentleman  in  the  embrasure  of  a  win 
dow,  smoking  a  cigar  and  looking  out.  But  at  the 
sound  of  Forrest's  step  he  turned  an  alert,  close-cropped, 
gray  head  and  stepped  out  of  the  embrasure. 

"Mr.  Ballin?"  said  Forrest. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Ballin."  His  eyes  perused  the  stranger  with 
astonishing  speed  and  deftness,  without  seeming  to  do  so. 

"It  was  the  toss  of  a  coin  that  decided  me  to  come," 
said  Forrest.  "I  have  asked  your  butler  to  lay  a  place 
for  me  at  luncheon." 

So  much  assumption  on  the  part  of  a  stranger  has  a 
cheeky  look  in  the  printing.  Yet  Forrest's  tone  and 
manner  far  more  resembled  those  of  old  friendship  and 
intimacy  than  impertinence. 

"Have  I,"  said  Ballin,  smiling  a  little  doubtfully, 
"ever  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you  before?  I 
have  a  poor  memory  for  faces.  But  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  should  not  have  forgotten  yours." 

"You  never  saw  me  but  the  one  time,"  said  Forrest. 
"That  was  many  years  ago,  and  you  would  not  remem 
ber.  You  were  a — little  wild  that  night.  You  sat 
against  me  at  a  game  of  faro.  But  even  if  you  had 
been  yourself — I  have  changed  very  much.  I  was  at 
that  time,  as  you  were,  little  more  than  a  boy." 

113 


THE  DESPOILER 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Ballin,  "were  you  a  part  of  that 
hectic  flush  that  to  myself  I  only  refer  to  as  'Sacra 
mento'?" 

"You  do  not  look  as  if  it  had  turned  you  into  a 
drinking  man,"  said  Forrest. 

"It  didn't,"  said  Ballin,  and  without  seeing  any 
reason  for  confiding  in  the  stranger  he  proceeded  to 
do  so.  "It  was  nip  and  tuck  for  a  time,"  he  said,  "and 
then  money  came  to  me,  and  this  old  place  and  respon 
sibilities,  and  I  became,  more  from  force  of  circum 
stances  than  from  any  inner  impulse,  a  decentish 
citizen." 

"The  money  made  everything  smooth,  did  it?"  said 
Forrest.  "I  wonder." 

"You  wonder—what?"  said  Ballin. 

"If  it  could — money  alone.  I  have  had  it  at  times 
— not  as  you  have  had  it — but  in  large,  ready  sums. 
Yet  I  think  it  made  very  little  difference." 

"What  have  you  been  doing  since — Sacramento?" 
asked  Ballin. 

"Up  to  a  month  ago,"  said  Forrest,  "I  kept  on  deal 
ing — in  different  parts  of  the  world — in  San  Francisco, 
in  London — Cairo — Calcutta.  And  then  the  matter 
which  brings  me  here  was  brought  to  my  attention." 

"Yes?"  said  Ballin,  a  little  more  coolly. 

"When  you  were  in  Sacramento,"  Forrest  went  on 
quietly  and  evenly  as  if  stating  an  acknowledged  fact, 

114 


THE  DESPOILER 

"you  did  not  expect  to  come  into  all  this.  Then  your 
cousin,  Ranger  Ballin,  and  his  son  went  down  in  the 
City  of  Pittsburgh;  and  all  this" — he  made  a  sudden, 
sweeping  gesture  with  one  of  his  long,  well-kept  hands 
— "came  to  you." 

"Yes?"  Ballin's  voice  still  interrogated  coolly. 

Forrest  broke  into  that  naive,  boyish  smile  of  his. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  "I  saw  a  play  last  winter  in 
which  the  question  is  asked,  'Do  you  believe  in 
Fairies?'  I  ask  you,  'Do  you  believe  in  Gypsies?5" 

"In  what  way?"  Ballin  asked,  and  he,  too,  smiled. 

"Ranger  Ballin,"  said  Forrest,  "had  another  son 
who  was  spirited  away  in  childhood  by  the  gypsies. 
That  will  explain  this  visit,  which  on  the  face  of  it  is 
an  impertinence.  It  will  explain  why  I  have  entered 
this  house  without  knocking,  and  have  invited  myself 
to  luncheon.  You  see,  sir,  all  this" — and  again  he 
made  the  sudden,  sweeping  gesture — "is  mine." 

It  speaks  for  Forrest's  effect  that,  although  rea 
son  told  Ballin  to  doubt  this  cataclysmic  statement, 
instinct  convinced  him  that  it  was  true.  Yet  what  its 
truth  might  mean  to  him  did  not  so  convincingly  ap 
pear.  That  he  might  be  ousted  from  all  that  he 
looked  on  as  his  own  did  not  yet  occur  to  him,  even 
vaguely. 

"Then  we  are  cousins,"  he  said  simply,  and  held 
out  his  hand.  But  Forrest  did  not  take  it  at  once. 

115 


THE  DESPOILER 

"Do  you  understand  what  cousinship  with  me  means 
to  you?"  he  said. 

"Why,"  said  Ballin,  "if  you  are  my  cousin" — he 
tried  to  imply  the  doubt  that  he  by  no  means  felt — 
"there  is  surely  enough  for  us  both." 

"Enough  to  make  up  for  the  years  when  there  has 
been  nothing?"  Forrest  smiled. 

"It  is  a  matter  for  lawyers  to  discuss,  then,"  said 
Ballin  quietly.  "Personally,  I  do  not  doubt  that  you 
believe  yourself  to  be  my  cousin's  son.  But  there  is 
room,  surely,  in  others  for  many  doubts." 

"Not  in  others,"  said  Forrest,  "who  have  been 
taught  to  know  that  two  and  two  are  four." 

"Have  you  documentary  proof  of  this  astonishing 
statement?"  said  Ballin. 

"Surely,"  said  Forrest.  And  he  drew  from  an  inner 
pocket  a  bundle  of  documents  bound  with  a  tape. 
Ballin  ran  a  perturbed  but  deft  eye  through  them, 
while  Forrest  stood  motionless,  more  like  a  shadow 
than  a  man.  Then,  presently,  Ballin  looked  up  with 
a  stanch,  honorable  look. 

"I  pick  no  flaws  here  cousin,"  he  said.  "I — I  con 
gratulate  you." 

"Cousin,"  said  Forrest,  "it  has  been  my  business 
in  life  to  see  others  take  their  medicine.  But  I  have 
never  seen  so  great  a  pill  swallowed  so  calmly.  Will 
you  offer  me  your  hand  now?" 

116 


THE  DESPOILER 

Ballin  offered  his  hand  grimly. 

Then  he  tied  the  documents  back  into  their  tape  and 
offered  the  bundle  to  Forrest. 

"I  am  a  careless  man,"  said  Forrest;  "I  might  lose 
them.  May  I  ask  you  to  look  after  them  for  me?" 

" Would  you  leave  me  alone  with  them?"  asked 
Ballin. 

"Of  course,"  said  Forrest. 

Ballin  opened  an  old-fashioned  safe  in  the  paneling 
and  locked  it  upon  the  despoiling  documents.  Yet 
his  heart,  in  spite  of  its  dread  and  bitterness,  was 
warmed  by  the  trustfulness  of  the  despoiler. 

"And  now  what?"  he  said. 

"And  now,"  said  Forrest,  "remember  for  a  little 
while  only  that  I  am,  let  us  say,  an  old  friend  of  your 
youth.  Forget  for  the  present,  if  you  can,  who  else  I 
am,  and  what  my  recrudescence  must  mean  to  you. 
It  is  not  a  happiness" — he  faltered  with  his  winning 
smile — "to  give  pain." 


II 

"Your  father,"  said  Forrest,  "says  that  I  may 
have  his  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table.  You  see,  Miss 
Dorothy,  in  the  world  in  which  I  have  lived  there 
were  no  families.  And  I  have  the  strongest  desire 
to  experiment  in  some  of  those  things  which  I  have 

117 


THE  DESPOILER 

missed.  .  .  .  Ballin,"  he  exclaimed,  "how  lovely  your 
daughters  are!" 

The  young  Earl  of  Moray  glanced  up  mischievously. 

"Do  you  think,  sir,"  he  drawled,  "that  I  have  made 
the  best  selection  under  the  circumstances?  Some 
times  I  think  I  ought  to  have  made  up  to  Ellen  instead 
of  Dorothy." 

"What's  the  matter  with  usl"  said  Alice,  and  she 
laid  her  hand  upon  Evelyn's. 

"Oh,  you  little  rotters!"  exclaimed  the  earl,  whom 
they  sometimes  teased  to  the  point  of  agony.  "No 
man  in  his  senses  would  look  at  you." 

"Right-O!"  said  young  Stephen  Ballin,  who  made 
the  eighth  at  table.  "They're  like  germs,"  he  ex 
plained  to  Forrest — "very  troublesome  to  deal  with." 

"It's  because  we're  twins,"  said  Evelyn.  "Every 
body  who  isn't  twins  is  down  on  them." 

"It's  because  they  are  always  beautiful  and  good," 
said  Alice.  "Why  don't  you  stand  up  for  us,  father?" 

It  was  noticed  that  Mr.  Ballin  was  not  looking  well; 
that  the  chicken  mousse  upon  his  plate  was  untouched, 
and  that  he  fooled  with  his  bread,  breaking  it,  crum 
bling  it,  and  rolling  it  into  pellets.  He  pulled  himself 
together  and  smiled  upon  his  beloved  twins. 

Forrest  had  turned  to  the  Earl  of  Moray. 

"Was  it  your  ancestor,"  he  said,  "who  'was  a  bra' 
gallant,  and  who  raid  at  the  gluve'?" 

118 


THE  DESPOILER 

"I  am  confident  of  it,"  said  the  young  Englishman. 

"By  all  accounts,"  said  Forrest,  "he  would  have 
been  a  good  hand  with  a  derringer.  Have  you  that 
gift  for  games?" 

"I'm  a  very  good  golfer,"  said  the  earl,  "but  I 
thought  a  derringer  was  a  kind  of  dish  that  babies  ate 
gruel  out  of."  He  blushed  becomingly. 

"As  ever,"  said  Alice,  "insular  and  ignorant." 

"You  prickly  baby {"  exclaimed  the  earl.  "What 
is  a  derringer,  Mr.  Forrest?" 

Forrest,  having  succeeded  in  drawing  the  attention 
of  his  immediate  and  prospective  family  from  the  ill 
looks  of  Mr.  Ballin,  proposed  to  keep  his  advantage. 

"  I  will  show  you,"  he  said.     "Are  my  hands  empty  ?  " 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  earl. 

"Keep  your  eyes  on  them,"  said  Forrest,  "so. 
Now,  we  will  suppose  that  you  have  good  reason  to 
believe  that  I  have  stolen  your  horse.  Call  me  a 
horse  thief." 

"Sir,"  said  the  earl,  entering  into  the  spirit  of  the 
game,  "you  are  a  horse  thief!" 

There  appeared  in  Forrest's  right  hand,  which  had 
seemed  empty,  which  had  seemed  not  to  move  or  to 
perform  in  any  celeritous  and  magic  manner,  a  very 
small,  stubby,  nickel  pistol,  with  a  caliber  much  too 
great  for  it,  and  down  whose  rifled  muzzle  the  earl 
found  himself  gazing.  The  earl  was  startled.  But  he 

119 


THE  DESPOILER 

said,  "I  was  mistaken,  sir;  you  are  not  a  horse  thief." 
As  mysteriously  as  it  had  come,  the  wicked  little  der 
ringer  disappeared.  Forrest's  hands  remained  inno 
cently  in  plain  view  of  all. 

"  Oh,"  said  Alice, "  if  you  had  only  pulled  the  trigger! " 

Evelyn  giggled. 

"Frankly,  Mr.  Forrest,"  said  the  earl,  "aren't  the 
twins  loathsome?  But  tell  me,  can  you  shoot  that 
thing  as  magically  as  you  play  tricks  with  it?" 

"It's  not  a  target  gun,"  said  Forrest.  "It's  for  in 
stantaneous  work  at  close  range.  One  could  probably 
hit  a  tossed  coin  with  it,  but  one  must  have  more 
weight  and  inches  to  the  barrel  and  less  explosion  for 
fine  practice." 

"What  would  you  call  fine  practice  ?"  asked  Stephen. 

"Oh,"  said  Forrest,  "a  given  leg  of  a  fly  at  twenty 
paces,  or  to  snip  a  wart  from  a  man's  hand  at  twenty- 
five." 

Mr.  Ballin  rose. 

"I'm  not  feeling  well,"  he  said  simply;  "when  the 
young  people  have  finished  with  you,  Forrest,  you  will 
find  me  in  the  Signer's  room."  He  left  the  table  and 
the  room,  very  pale  and  shaky,  for  by  this  time  the  full 
meaning  of  Forrest's  incontestable  claim  had  clarified 
in  his  brain.  He  saw  himself  as  if  struck  down  by 
sudden  poverty — of  too  long  leisure  and  too  advanced 

120 


THE  DESPOILER 

in  years  to  begin  life  with  any  chance  of  success. 
His  symptoms  were  not  unlike  inactive  nausea.  And 
when  he  was  beyond  the  reach  of  his  family's  eyes 
he  began  to  lurch  in  his  walk.  When  he  reached 
the  Signer's  room  he  had  out  the  documents  that  For 
rest  had  handed  to  him,  and  went  through  them  very 
carefully,  praying  for  doubt.  It  is  good  to  know  that 
it  did  not  even  occur  to  him  to  destroy  them. 

Meantime,  Forrest,  who  felt  that  Mr.  Ballin's  in 
disposition  had  put  a  certain  constraint  upon  the  party, 
exerted  himself  to  entertain  the  young  people.  He 
had  no  great  store  of  wit,  but  a  vast  knowledge  of  the 
life  that  was  outside  their  pale.  And  he  told  them 
tales  of  sudden  deaths  by  shooting  and  the  rope;  of 
rich  bodies  of  ore  struck  in  the  last  moment  of  despair; 
and  he  told  them  of  Homeric  deeds  and  curious  runs 
of  cards.  In  particular,  the  Earl  of  Moray,  whose  life 
had  been  as  carefully  ordered  as  one  of  the  clipped 
yews  of  his  own  Castle  Stuart,  was  fascinated  by  the 
gentle  wording  and  the  colossal  episodes  of  the  gam 
bler's  talk.  And  the  gambler  warmed  to  the  eager 
queries  and  to  the  sinless  young  face  of  the  Stuart. 

When  luncheon  was  over  they  went  into  the  living- 
room,  the  earl  keeping  close  to  the  gambler,  as  if  he 
feared  to  lose  him.  In  a  corner  of  the  living-room, 
open  and  inviting,  was  a  grand  piano.  It  caught 
Forrest's  eye,  and  he  turned  to  Dorothy. 

121 


THE  DESPOILER 

"Your  young  man,  Miss  Dorothy,"  he  said,  "had 
a  cousin,  a  very  distant  cousin,  whom  I  used  to  know 
in  the  West — Charles  Stuart;  he  had  the  face  of  the 
first  Charles,  and,  like  him,  the  devil's  own  luck.  But 
he  had  a  voice  of  pure  gold,  and  little  children  went  to 
him  as  iron  filings  to  a  magnet.  It  was  from  him  that 
I  learned  about  the  Earl  of  Moray  who  '  raid  at  the 
gluve.' " 

Without  any  more  words  Forrest  crossed  to  the 
piano  and  sat  down  at  it.  He  struck  a  splendid,  wide- 
open  chord  in  the  base,  and  began  to  sing  in  a  clear, 
ringing  voice,  wonderful  with  conviction  and  tragedy: 

"  Ye  highlands  and  ye  lawlands, 

Oh,  where  hae  ye  been? 
They  ha'  slain  the  Earl  o'  Moray, 
And  ha'  laid  him  on  the  green. 

"  He  was  a  bra'  gallant, 

And  he  raid  at  the  gluve, 

And  the  bonnie  Earl  'o  Moray 

He  was  the  Queen's  love. 

"  He  was  a  bra'  gallant, 

And  he  raid  at  the  ring, 
And  the  bonnie  Earl  o'  Moray, 
Oh,  he  might  ha'  been  a  king. 

"  Lang,  lang  will  his  lady  look 

Out  o'er  the  castle  down, 
Ere  she  see  the  Earl  o'  Moray 
Come  soundin'  thro'  the  town." 

122 


THE  DESPOILER 

Forrest  finished  as  abruptly  as  he  had  begun  and 
rose  from  the  piano.  But  for  a  few  charged  moments 
even  the  twins  were  silent. 

"He  used  to  sing  that  song,'*  said  Forrest,  "so  that 
the  cold  chills  went  galloping  the  length  of  a  man's 
spine.  He  was  as  like  you  to  look  at,"  he  turned  to 
the  earl,  "as  one  star  is  like  another.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  it  has  moved  me  to  meet  you.  We  were  in  a 
place  called  Grub  Gulch,  placer-mining — half  a  dozen 
of  us.  I  came  down  with  the  scarlet  fever.  The 
others  bolted,  all  but  Charlie  Stuart.  He  stayed. 
But  by  the  time  I  was  up,  thanks  to  him,  he  was  down 
— thanks  to  me.  He  died  of  it."  Forrest  finished  very 
gravely. 

"Good  Lord!"  said  the  earl. 

"He  might  ha*  been  a  king,"  said  Forrest.  And  he 
swallowed  the  lump  that  rose  in  his  throat,  and  turned 
away  so  that  his  face  could  not  be  seen  by  them. 

But,  presently,  he  flashed  about  with  his  winning 
smile. 

"What  would  all  you  rich  young  people  do  if  you 
hadn't  a  sou  in  the  world?" 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Stephen,  "everything  I  know 
how  to  do  decently  costs  money." 

"I  feel  sure,"  said  Alice,  her  arm  about  Evelyn's 
waist,  "that  our  beauty  and  goodness  would  see  us 
through." 

123 


THE  DESPOILER 

"I,"  said  Ellen,  "would  quietly  curl  up  and  die/' 

"I,"  said  Dorothy,  "would  sell  my  earl  to  the  high 
est  bidder." 

"I  shouldn't  bring  tuppence,"  said  the  earl. 

"But  you,"  said  Forrest  to  the  earl,  "what  would 
you  do  if  you  were  stone-broke?" 

"I  would  marry  Dorothy  to-morrow,"  said  the  earl, 
"instead  of  waiting  until  September.  Fortunately,  I 
have  a  certain  amount  of  assets  that  the  law  won't 
allow  me  to  get  rid  of." 

"I  wish  you  could,"  said  Forrest. 

"Why?"    The  earl  wrinkled  his  eyebrows. 

"I  would  like  to  see  what  you  would  do."  He  laid 
his  hand  lightly  upon  the  young  Englishman's  shoul 
der.  "You  don't  mind?  I  am  an  old  man,"  he  said, 
"but  I  cannot  tell  you — what  meeting  you  has  meant 
to  me.  I  want  you  to  come  with  me  now,  for  a  few 
minutes,  to  Mr.  Ballin.  Will  you?" 


Ill 

"Mr.  Ballin,"  said  Forrest,  his  hand  still  on  the 
earl's  shoulder,  "I  want  you  to  tell  this  young  man 
what  only  you  and  I  know." 

Ballin  looked  up  from  his  chair  with  the  look  of  a 
sick  man. 

"It's  this,  Charlie,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  came 
124 


THE  DESPOILER 

with  difficulty.  "It's  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  I  am 
a  rich  man.  Everything  in  this  world  that  I  honestly 
thought  belonged  to  me  belongs  to  Mr.  Forrest." 

The  earl  read  truth  in  the  ashen,  careworn  face  of 
his  love's  father. 

"But  surely,"  he  said  anxiously,  "Dorothy  is  still 
yours — to  give." 

Forrest's  dark  and  brooding  countenance  became 
as  if  suddenly  brightly  lighted. 

"My  boy — my  boy!"  he  cried,  and  he  folded  the 
wriggling  and  embarrassed  Stuart  in  his  long,  gaunt 
arms. 

I  think  an  angel  bringing  glad  tidings  might  have 
looked  as  Forrest  did  when,  releasing  the  Earl  of 
Moray,  he  turned  upon  the  impulse  and  began  to  pour 
out  words  to  Ballin. 

"When  I  found  out  who  I  was,"  he  said,  "and  real 
ized  for  how  long — oh,  my  Lord !  how  long — others  had 
been  enjoying  what  was  mine,  and  that  I  had  rubbed 
myself  bare  and  bleeding  against  all  the  rough  places 
of  life,  will  you  understand  what  a  rage  and  bitterness 
against  you  all  possessed  me?  And  I  came — oh,  on 
wings — to  trample,  and  to  dispossess,  and  to  sneer,  and 
to  send  you  packing.  .  .  .  But  first  the  peace  of  the 
woods  and  the  meadows,  and  the  beech  wood  and  the 
gardens,  and  the  quiet  hills  and  the  little  brooks  stag 
gered  me.  And  then  you — the  way  you  took  it,  cousin! 

125 


THE  DESPOILER 

— all  pale  and  wretched  as  you  were;  you  were  so 
calm,  and  you  admitted  the  claim  at  once — and  bore 
up.  ...  Then  I  began  to  repent  of  the  bitterness  in 
which  I  had  come.  .  .  .  And  I  left  the  papers  in  your 
keeping.  ...  I  thought — for  I  have  known  mostly 
evil — that,  perhaps,  you  would  destroy  them.  ...  It 
never  entered  your  head.  .  .  .  Your  are  clean  white — 
and  so  are  your  girls  and  your  boy.  ...  I  did  not  ex 
pect  to  find  white  people  in  possession.  Why  should 
I?  ...  But  I  said,  'Surely  the  Englishman  isn't 
white — he  is  after  the  money.'  But  right  away  I  be 
gan  to  have  that  feeling,  too,  smoothed  out  of  me.  .  .  . 
And  now,  when  he  finds  that  instead  of  Dorothy  be 
ing  an  heiress  she  is  a  pauper,  he  says,  'But  surely, 
Dorothy  is  still  yours  to  give!' 

"I  was  a  fool  to  come.     Yet  I  am  glad." 

Neither  Ballin  nor  the  earl  spoke. 

"  Could  I  have  this  room  to  myself  for  a  little  while  ?" 
asked  Forrest. 

"Of  course,"  said  Ballin;   "it  is  yours." 

Forrest  bowed;  the  corners  of  his  mouth  turned  a 
little  upward. 

"Will  you  come  back  in  an  hour — you,  alone, 
cousin?" 

Ballin  nodded  quietly. 

"Come  along,  Charlie,"  he  said,  and  together  they 
left  the  room.  But  when  Ballin  returned  alone,  an 

126 


THE  DESPOILER 

hour  later,  the  room  was  empty.  Upon  the  Signer's 
writing-desk  was  a  package  addressed  collectively  to 
"The  Ballins,"  and  in  one  corner  was  written,  "Blood 
will  tell." 

The  package,  on  being  opened,  proved  to  contain 
nothing  more  substantial  than  ashes.  And  by  the 
donor  thereof  there  was  never  given  any  further  sign. 


127 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

A  little  one-act  play,  sufficiently  dramatic,  is  re 
vived  from  time  to  time  among  the  Latin  races  for 
long  runs.  The  play  is  of  simplified,  classic  construc 
tion.  But  the  principal  part  is  variously  interpreted 
by  different  actors.  The  minor  characters,  a  priest 
and  an  officer,  have  no  great  latitude  for  individuality, 
while  the  work  of  the  chorus  comes  as  near  mathe 
matics  as  anything  human  can.  The  play  is  a  passion 
play.  No  actor  has  ever  played  the  principal  part 
more  than  once.  And  the  play  differs  from  other 
plays  in  this,  also,  that  there  are  not  even  traditional 
lines  for  the  principal  character  to  speak.  He  may 
say  whatever  comes  into  his  head.  He  may  say  noth 
ing.  He  may  play  his  part  with  reticence  or  melo 
dramatically.  It  does  not  matter.  His  is  what  actors 
call  a  fat  part;  it  cannot  be  spoiled.  And  at  the  cli 
max  and  curtain  he  may  sink  slowly  to  the  ground  or 
fall  upon  his  back  or  upon  his  face.  It  does  not  mat 
ter.  Once,  before  falling,  a  man  leaped  so  violently 
upward  and  forward  as  to  break  the  ropes  with  which 
his  legs  and  arms  were  bound.  Those  who  saw  this 

131 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

performance  cannot  speak  of  it  to  this  day  without 
a  shudder. 

Under  the  management  of  General  Weyler  in  Cuba 
this  little  play  enjoyed,  perhaps,  its  longest  continuous 
run.  Curiously  enough,  there  were  absolutely  no  prof 
its  to  be  divided  at  the  end.  But,  then,  think  of  the 
expense  of  production!  Why,  to  enable  the  General 
to  stage  that  play  for  so  many  nights — I  mean  sunrises 
— required  the  employment  of  several  hundred  thou 
sand  men  and  actually  bankrupted  a  nation.  In  this 
world  one  must  pay  like  the  devil  for  one's  fancies. 
Think  what  Weyler  paid :  all  the  money  that  his  coun 
try  could  beg  or  borrow;  then  his  own  reputation  as 
a  soldier,  as  a  statesman,  and  as  a  man;  ending  with 
a  series  of  monstrous  mortgages  on  his  own  soul.  For 
which,  when  it  is  finally  sold  at  auction,  there  will  not 
be  bid  so  much  as  one  breath  of  garlic. 

When  Juan  D'Acosta's  mother  heard  that  her  younger 
son  Manual  had  been  taken  prisoner  by  the  Spaniards 
and  was  to  be  shot  the  following  morning  at  sunrise 
she  sat  for  an  hour  motionless,  staring  at  the  floor. 
Juan,  as  is,  or  was,  well  known,  had  died  gloriously,  a 
cigarette  between  his  lips,  after  inestimable,  if  secret, 
services  to  Cuba.  Nor  had  his  execution  been  en 
tirely  a  martyrdom.  He  was  shot  for  a  spy.  He  was 
a  spy,  and  a  very  daring,  clever,  and  self-effacing  one. 
He  had  been  caught  within  the  Spanish  lines  with 

132 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

incriminating  papers  upon  his  person.  And  before 
they  could  secure  him  he  had  had  the  eternal  satis 
faction  of  ripping  open  two  Spaniards  with  his  knife 
so  that  they  died.  He  was  executed  without  a  trial. 
His  mother  went  out  with  others  of  his  relatives  to  see 
him  die.  The  memory  of  his  dying  had  remained 
with  her  to  comfort  her  for  the  fact  of  it.  She  had 
seen  him,  calm,  and  in  her  eyes  very  beautiful,  stand 
ing  in  strong  relief  with  his  back  to  a  white  wall,  a 
cigarette  between  his  lips.  There  had  not  been  the 
slightest  bravado  in  his  perfect  self-possession.  It  had 
been  that  of  a  gentleman,  which  he  was  not  by  birth, 
and  a  man  of  the  world;  quiet,  retiring  and  attentive. 
He  had  looked  so  courteous,  so  kind-hearted,  so  pure! 
He  had  spoken — on  either  side  of  his  cigarette — for 
some  moments  to  the  priest,  apologizing  through  him 
to  God  for  whatever  spots  there  may  have  been  upon 
his  soul.  Then  his  eyes  had  sought  his  mother's 
among  the  spectators  and  remained  steadfastly  upon 
them,  smiling,  until  the  exactions  of  his  part  demanded 
that  he  face  more  to  the  front  and  look  into  the  muzzles 
of  the  Mausers.  The  fire  of  his  cigarette  having 
burned  too  close  to  his  lips  for  comfort,  and  his  hands 
being  tied,  he  spat  the  butt  out  of  his  mouth  and  al 
lowed  the  last  taste  of  smoke  which  he  was  to  enjoy 
on  earth  to  curl  slowly  off  through  his  nostrils.  Then, 
for  it  was  evident  that  the  edge  of  the  sun  would  show 

133 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

presently  above  the  rim  of  the  world,  he  had  drawn  a 
breath  or  two  of  the  fresh  morning  air  and  had  spoken 
his  last  words  in  a  clear,  controlled  voice. 

"Whenever  one  of  us  dies,"  he  had  said,  "it  strength 
ens  the  cause  of  liberty  instead  of  weakening  it.  I  am 
so  sure  of  this  that  I  would  like  to  come  to  life  after 
being  shot,  so  that  I  might  be  taken  and  shot  again 
and  again  and  again.  You,  my  friends,  are  about  to 
fire  for  Cuba,  not  against  her.  Therefore,  I  thank 
you.  I  think  that  is  all.  Christ  receive  me." 

The  impact  of  the  volley  had  flattened  him  back 
ward  against  the  wall  with  shocking  violence,  but  he 
had  remained  on  his  feet  for  an  appreciable  interval  of 
time  and  had  then  sunk  slowly  to  his  knees  and  had 
fallen  quietly  forward  upon  his  face. 

So  her  older  boy  had  died,  honoring  himself  and  his 
country,  after  serving  his  country  only.  The  memory 
of  his  life,  deeds  and  dying  was  a  comfort  to  her.  And 
when  she  learned  that  Manuel,  too,  was  to  be  shot,  and 
sat  staring  at  the  floor,  it  was  not  entirely  of  Manuel 
that  she  was  thinking.  She  did  not  love  Manuel  as  she 
had  loved  Juan.  He  had  not  been  a  comfort  to  her  in 
any  way.  He  had  been  a  sneaking,  cowardly  child;  he 
had  grown  into  a  vicious  and  cowardly  young  man. 
He  was  a  patriot  because  he  was  afraid  not  to  be;  he 
had  enlisted  in  the  Cuban  army  because  he  was  afraid 
not  to.  He  had  even  participated  in  skirmishes,  sweat- 

134 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

ing  with  fear  and  discharging  his  rifle  with  his  eyes 
closed.  But  he  had  been  clever  enough  to  conceal  his 
white  feathers,  and  he  could  talk  in  a  modest,  purpose 
ful  way,  just  like  a  genuine  hero.  He  was  to  be  shot, 
not  because  he  was  himself,  but  because  he  was  Juan's 
brother.  The  Spaniards  feared  the  whole  family  as  a 
man  fears  a  hornet's  nest  in  the  eaves  and,  because  one 
hornet  has  stung  him,  wages  exterminating  war  upon 
all  hornets.  In  Manuel's  case,  however,  there  was  a 
trial,  short  and  unpleasant.  The  man  was  on  his  knees 
half  the  time,  blubbering,  abjuring,  perspiring,  and 
begging  for  mercy;  swearing  on  his  honor  to  betray 
his  country  wherever  and  whenever  possible;  to  fight 
against  her,  to  spy  within  her  defenses  and  plans — any 
thing,  everything! 

His  judges  were  not  impressed.  They  believed  him 
to  be  acting.  He  was  one  of  the  D'Acostas;  Juan's 
brother,  Ferdinand's  son — a  hornet.  Not  the  same 
type  of  hornet,  but  for  that  very  reason,  perhaps,  the 
more  to  be  feared.  "  When  he  finds,"  said  the  colonel 
who  presided,  "  that  he  is  to  be  shot  beyond  perad vent 
ure  he  will  turn  stoic  like  the  others,  you'll  see.  Even 
now  he  is  probably  laughing  at  us  for  being  moved  by 
his  blubberings  and  entreaties.  He  wants  to  get  away 
from  us  at  any  price.  That's  all.  He  wants  a  chance 
to  sting  us  again.  And  that  chance  he  will  not  get." 

Oddly  enough,  the  coward  did  turn  stoic  the  moment 
135 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

he  was  formally  condemned.  But  it  was  physical  ex 
haustion  as  much  as  anything  else;  a  sudden  numbing 
of  the  senses,  a  kind  of  hideous  hypnotism  upon  him 
by  the  idea  of  death.  It  lasted  the  better  part  of  an 
hour.  Then,  alone  in  his  cell,  he  hurled  himself  against 
the  walls,  screaming,  or  cowered  upon  the  stone  floor, 
pooling  it  with  tears,  sobbing  horribly  with  his  whole 
body,  going  now  and  again  into  convulsions  of  nausea. 
These  actions  were  attributed  by  his  guard  to  demo 
niacal  rage,  but  not  to  fear.  He  thus  fought  blindly 
against  the  unfightable  until  about  four  in  the  after 
noon,  when  exhaustion  once  more  put  a  quietus  upon 
him.  It  was  then  that  his  mother,  having  taken  coun 
sel  at  last  with  her  patriot  soul,  visited  him. 

She  had  succeeded,  not  without  difficulty,  in  gaining 
permission.  It  was  not  every  mother  who  could  man 
age  a  last  interview  with  a  condemned  son.  But  she 

o 

had  bribed  the  colonel.  She  had  given  him  in  silver 
the  savings  of  a  lifetime. 

The  old  woman  sat  down  by  her  son  and  took  his 
hand  in  hers.  Then  the  door  of  the  cell  was  closed 
upon  them  and  locked.  Manuel  turned  and  collapsed 
against  his  mother's  breast. 

"It's  all  right,  Manuel,"  she  said  in  her  quiet,  cheer 
ful  voice.  "I've  seen  the  colonel." 

Manuel  looked  up  quickly,  a  glint  of  hope  in  his 
rodent  eyes. 

136 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said.  His  voice  was 
hoarse.  His  mother  bit  her  lips,  for  the  hoarseness 
told  her  that  her  son  had  been  screaming  with  fear.  In 
that  moment  she  almost  hated  him.  But  she  con 
trolled  herself.  She  looked  at  him  sidewise. 

"The  colonel  tells  me  that  you  have  offered  to  serve 
Spain  if  he  will  give  you  your  life?" 

This  was  a  shrewd  guess.  She  waited  for  Manuel's 
answer,  not  even  hoping  that  it  would  be  in  the  nega 
tive.  She  knew  him  through  and  through. 

"Well,"  he  choked,  "it  wouldn't  do." 

"That's  where  you  are  wrong,  my  son,"  she  said. 
"The  colonel,  on  the  contrary,  believes  he  can  make 
use  of  you.  He  is  going  to  let  you  go  free." 

Manuel  could  not  believe  his  ears,  it  seemed.  He 
kept  croaking  "What?"  in  his  hoarse  voice,  his  face 
brightening  with  each  reiteration. 

"But,"  she  went  on,  "he  does  not  wish  this  to  be 
known  to  the  Cubans.  You  see,  if  they  knew  that  you 
had  been  allowed  to  go  free  it  would  counteract  your 
usefulness,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Yes— but " 

"Listen  to  me.  Everything  is  to  proceed  as  ordered 
and  according  to  army  regulations  except  one  thing. 
The  rifles  which  are  to  be  fired  at  you  will  be  loaded 
with  blank  cartridges.  When  the  squad  fires  you  must 
fall  as  if — as  if  you  were  dead.  Then  you  will  be  put 

137 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

in  a  coffin  and  brought  to  me  for  burial.  Then  you 
will  come  to  life.  That  is  all." 

She  smiled  into  her  son's  face  with  a  great  gladness 
and  patted  his  hands. 

"Afterward,"  she  said,  "you  will  grow  a  beard  and 
generally  disguise  yourself.  It  is  thus  that  the  colonel 
thinks  he  can  best  make  use  of  your  knowledge  and 
cleverness.  And,  of  course,  at  the  first  opportunity 
you  will  give  the  colonel  the  slip  and  once  more  take 
your  place  in  the  patriot  army." 

"Of  course,"  said  Manuel;  "I  never  meant  to  do 
what  I  pretended  I  would." 

"Of  course  not!"  said  his  mother. 

"But " 

"But  what?" 

"I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  having  a  mock  execu 
tion.  It's  not  nice  to  have  a  lot  of  blank  cartridges  go 
off  in  your  face." 

"Nice!"  The  old  woman  sprang  to  her  feet.  She 
shook  her  finger  in  his  face.  "Nice!  Haven't  you  any 
shred  of  courage  in  your  great,  hulking  body  ?  I  don't 
believe  you'll  even  face  blank  cartridges  like  a  man — I 
believe  you'll  scream  and  blubber  and  be  a  shame  to 
us  all.  You  disgust  me!"  She  spat  on  the  floor. 
"Here  I  come  to  tell  you  that  you  are  to  be  spared,  and 
you're  afraid  to  death  of  the  means  by  which  you  are 
to  go  free.  Why,  I'd  stand  up  to  blank  cartridges  all 

138 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

day  without  turning  a  hair — or  to  bullets,  for  that  mat 
ter — at  two  hundred  metres,  where  I  knew  none  of 
those  Spanish  idiots  could  hit  me  except  by  accident. 
I  wouldn't  expect  you  to  play  the  man  at  a  real  execu 
tion  or  at  anything  real,  but  surely  you  can  pull  your 
self  together  enough  to  play  the  man  at  a  mock  execu 
tion.  What  a  chance!  You  can  leave  a  reputation  as 
great  as  your  brother's — greater,  even;  you  could 
crack  jokes  and  burst  out  laughing  just  when  they  go 
to  fire " 

Then,  as  suddenly  as  she  had  flown  into  a  passion, 
she  burst  into  tears  and  flung  her  arms  about  her  boy 
and  clung  to  him  and  mothered  him  until  in  the  depths 
of  his  surly,  craven  heart  he  was  touched  and  strength 
ened. 

"Don't  be  afraid  for  me,  mother,"  he  said.  "I  do 
not  like  even  the  blank  cartridges,  God  forgive  me; 
but  I  shall  not  shame  you." 

She  kissed  him  again  and  again  and  laughed  and 
cried.  And  when  the  guard  opened  the  door  and  said 
that  the  time  was  up  she  patted  her  boy  upon  the 
cheeks  and  shoulders  and  smiled  bravely  into  his  face. 
Then  she  left  him. 

The  execution  of  Manuel  D'Acosta  was  not  less  in 
spiring  to  the  patriotic  heart  than  that  of  his  brother 
Juan.  And  who  knows  but  that  it  may  have  been  as 
difficult  an  act  of  control  for  the  former  to  face  the 

139 


ONE  MORE  MARTYR 

blank  cartridges  as  for  the  latter  to  stand  up  to  those 
loaded  with  ball?  Like  Juan,  Manuel  stood  against 
the  wall  with  a  cigarette  between  his  lips.  Like  Juan, 
he  sought  out  his  mother's  face  among  the  spectators 
and  smiled  at  her  bravely.  He  did  not  stand  so  mod 
estly,  so  gentlemanly  as  Juan  had  done,  but  with  a 
touch  of  bravado,  an  occasional  half-swaggering  swing 
from  the  hips,  an  upward  tilt  of  the  chin. 

"I  told  you  he  would  turn  stoic,"  the  colonel  whis 
pered  to  one  of  the  officers  who  had  taken  part  in  the 
trial.  "I  know  these  Cubans." 

It  was  all  very  edifying.  Like  Juan,  Manuel  spat 
out  his  cigarette  when  it  had  burned  too  short.  But, 
unlike  Juan,  he  made  no  dying  speech.  He  felt  that 
he  was  still  too  hoarse  to  be  effective.  Instead,  at  the 
command,  "Aim!"  he  burst  out  laughing,  as  if  in  de 
rision  of  the  well-known  lack  of  markmanship  which 
prevailed  among  the  Spaniards. 

He  was  nearly  torn  in  two. 

Those  who  lifted  him  into  his  coffin  noticed  that  the 
expression  upon  his  face  was  one  of  blank  astonish 
ment,  as  if  the  beyond  had  contained  an  immeasurable 
surprise  for  him. 

His  mother  took  a  certain  comfort  from  the  manner 
of  his  dying,  but  it  was  the  memory  of  her  other  boy 
that  really  enabled  her  to  live  out  her  life  without 
going  mad. 

140 


"MA'AM? 


"MA'AM?" 

In  most  affairs,  except  those  which  related  to  his 
matrimonial  ventures,  Marcus  Antonius  Saterlee  was 
a  patient  man.  On  three  occasions  "an  ardent  tem 
perament  and  the  heart  of  a  dove,"  as  he  himself  had 
expressed  it,  had  corralled  a  wife  in  worship  and  ten 
derness  within  his  house.  The  first  had  been  the  love 
of  his  childhood;  the  wooing  of  the  second  had  lasted 
but  six  weeks;  that  of  the  third  but  three.  He  re 
joiced  in  the  fact  that  he  had  been  a  good  husband  to 
three  good  women.  He  lamented  that  all  were  dead. 
Now  and  then  he  squirmed  his  bull  head  around  on  his 
bull  body,  and  glanced  across  the  aisle  at  the  showy 
woman  who  was  daintily  picking  a  chicken  wing.  He 
himself  was  not  toying  with  beefsteak,  boiled  eggs, 
mashed  potatoes,  cauliflower,  lima,  and  string  beans. 
He  was  eating  them.  Each  time  he  looked  at  the  lady 
he  muttered  something  to  his  heart  of  a  dove: 

"Flighty.  Too  slight.  Stuck  on  herself.  Pin- 
head,"  etc. 

With  his  food  Saterlee  was  not  patient.  He  dispensed 
with  mastication.  Neither  was  he  patient  of  other  peo- 

143 


"MA'AM?" 

pie's  matrimonial  ventures.  And,  in  particular,  that 
contemplated  and  threatened  by  his  son  and  heir  was 
moving  him  across  three  hundred  miles  of  inundated 
country  as  fast  as  a  train  could  carry  him.  His  son 
had  written: 

"  DEAREST  DAD — I've  found  Dorothy  again.  She's  at  Car- 
casonne.  They  thought  her  lungs  were  bad,  but  they  aren't. 
We're  going  to  be  married  a  week  from  to-day — next  Friday — at 
nine  A.M.  This  marriage  is  going  to  take  place,  Daddy  dear. 
You  can't  prevent  it.  I  write  this  so's  to  be  on  the  square.  I'm 
inviting  you  to  the  wedding.  I'll  be  hurt  if  you  don't  show  up. 
What  if  Dorothy's  mother  is  an  actress  and  has  been  divorced 
twice?  You've  been  a  marrying  man  yourself,  Dad.  Dorothy 
is  all  darling  from  head  to  foot.  But  I  love  you,  too,  Daddy, 
and  if  you  can't  see  it  my  way,  why,  God  bless  and  keep  you 
just  the  same.  JIM. 

I  can't  deny  that  Marcus  Antonius  Saterlee  was 
touched  by  his  son's  epistle.  But  he  was  not  moved 
out  of  reason. 

"The  girl's  mother,"  he  said  to  himself,  "is  a  painted, 
divorced  jade."  And  he  thought  with  pleasure  of  the 
faith,  patience,  and  rectitude  of  the  three  gentle  com 
panions  whom  he  had  successively  married  and  buried. 
"There  was  never  any  divorce  in  the  Saterlee  blood," 
he  had  prided  himself.  "  Man  or  woman,  we  stick  by 
our  choice  till  he  or  she"  (he  was  usually  precise) 
"turns  up  his  or  her  toes.  Not  till  then  do  we  think 
of  anybody  else.  But  then  we  do,  because  it  is  not 

144 


"MA'AM?" 

good  to  live  alone,  especially  in  a  small  community  in 
Southern  California." 

He  glanced  once  more  at  the  showy  lady  across  the 
aisle.  She  had  finished  her  chicken  wing,  and  was 
dipping  her  fingers  in  a  finger-bowl,  thus  display 
ing  to  sparkling  advantage  a  number  of  handsome 
rings. 

"My  boy's  girl's  mother  a  painted  actress,"  he  mut 
tered  as  he  looked.  "Not  if  I  know  it."  And  then 
he  muttered:  "  You'd  look  like  an  actress  if  you  was 
painted." 

Though  the  words  can  not  have  been  distinguished, 
the  sounds  were  audible. 

"Sir?"  said  the  lady,  stiffly  but  courteously. 

"Nothing,  Ma'am,"  muttered  Mark  Anthony,  much 
abashed.  "I'm  surprised  to  see  so  much  water  in  this 
arid  corner  of  the  world,  where  I  have  often  suffered 
for  want  of  it.  I  must  have  been  talking  to  myself  to 
that  effect.  I  hope  you  will  excuse  me." 

The  lady  looked  out  of  the  window — not  hers,  but 
Saterlee's. 

"It  does  look,"  she  said,  "  as  if  the  waters  had  di 
vorced  themselves  from  the  bed  of  ocean." 

She  delivered  this  in  a  quick  but  telling  voice.  Sa- 
terlee  was  shocked  at  the  comparison. 

"I  suppose,"  she  continued,  "we  may  attribute  those 
constant  and  tedious  delays  to  which  we  have  been 

145 


"MA'AM?" 

subjected  all  day  to  the  premature  melting  of  snow  in 
the  fastnesses  of  the  Sierras?" 

This  phrase  did  not  shock  Saterlee.  He  was  amazed 
by  the  power  of  memory  which  it  proved.  For  three 
hours  earlier  he  had  read  a  close  paraphrase  of  it  in  a 
copy  of  the  Tomb  City  Picayune  which  he  had  bought 
at  that  city. 

The  train  ran  slower  and  slower,  and  out  on  to  a 
shallow  embankment. 

"Do  you  think  we  shall  ever  get  anywhere  ?"  queried 
the  lady. 

"Not  when  we  expect  to,  Ma'am,"  said  Saterlee. 
He  began  to  scrub  his  strong  mouth  with  his  napkin, 
lest  he  should  return  to  the  smoker  with  stains  of  boiled 
eggs  upon  him. 

The  train  gave  a  jolt.  And  then,  very  quietly,  the  din 
ing-car  rolled  over  on  its  side  down  the  embankment. 
There  was  a  subdued  smashing  of  china  and  glass.  A 
clergyman  at  one  of  the  rear  tables  quietly  remarked, 
"Washout,"  and  Saterlee,  who  had  not  forgotten  the 
days  when  he  had  learned  to  fall  from  a  bucking  bronco, 
relaxed  his  great  muscles  and  swore  roundly,  sonorously, 
and  at  great  length.  The  car  came  to  rest  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  embankment,  less  on  its  side  than  on  its  top. 
For  a  moment — or  so  it  seemed — all  was  perfectly 
quiet.  Then  (at  one  and  the  same  moment)  a  lady  in 
the  extreme  front  of  the  diner  was  heard  exclaiming 

146 


"MA'AM?" 

faintly:  "You're  pinching  me,"  and  out  of  the  tail  of 
his  eye  Saterlee  saw  the  showy  lady  across  the  aisle 
descending  upon  him  through  the  air.  She  was  ac 
companied  by  the  hook  and  leg  table  upon  which  she 
had  made  her  delicate  meal,  and  all  its  appurtenances, 
including  ice-water  and  a  wide  open  jar  of  very  thin 
mustard. 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured,  as  her  impact  drove 
most  of  the  breath  out  of  Saterlee 's  bull  body.  "How 
strong  you  are!" 

"When  you  are  rested,  Ma'am,"  said  he,  with  ex 
treme  punctiliousness,  "I  think  we  may  leave  the  car 
by  climbing  over  the  sides  of  the  seats  on  this  side. 
Perhaps  you  can  manage  to  let  me  pass  you  in  case  the 
door  is  jammed.  I  could  open  it." 

He  preceded  her  over  and  over  the  sides  of  the  seats, 
opened  the  car  door,  which  was  not  jammed,  and  helped 
her  to  the  ground.  And  then,  his  heart  of  a  parent 
having  wakened  to  the  situation,  he  forgot  her  and  for 
sook  her.  He  pulled  a  time-table  from  his  pocket;  he 
consulted  a  mile-post,  which  had  had  the  good  sense 
to  stop  opposite  the  end  of  the  car  from  which  he  had 
alighted.  It  was  forty  miles  to  Carcasonne — and  only 
two  to  Grub  City — a  lovely  city  of  the  plain,  consisting 
of  one  corrugated-iron  saloon.  He  remembered  to  have 
seen  it — with  its  great  misleading  sign,  upon  which  were 
emblazoned  the  noble  words:  "Life-Saving  Station." 

147 


"MA'AM?" 

"Grub  City — hire  buggy — drive  Carcasonne,"  he 
muttered,  and  without  a  glance  at  the  train  which  had 
betrayed  him,  or  at  the  lady  who  had  fallen  upon  him, 
so  to  speak,  out  of  the  skies,  he  moved  forward  with 
great  strides,  leaped  a  puddle,  regained  the  embank 
ment,  and  hastened  along  the  ties,  skipping  every  other 
one. 

II 

Progress  is  wonderful  in  the  Far  West.  Since  he 
had  last  seen  it  only  a  year  had  passed,  and  yet  the 
lovely  city  of  Grub  had  doubled  its  size.  It  now  con 
sisted  of  two  saloons:  the  old  "Life-Saving  Station" 
and  the  new  "Like  Father  Used  to  Take/'  The  pro 
prietor  of  the  new  saloon  was  the  old  saloon-keeper's 
son-in-law,  and  these,  with  their  flourishing  and,  no 
doubt,  amiable  families,  were  socially  gathered  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  Life-Saving  Station.  The  shade  was 
much  the  same  sort  that  is  furnished  by  trees  in  more 
favored  localities,  and  the  population  of  Grub  City 
was  enjoying  itself.  The  rival  wives,  mother  and 
daughter,  ample,  rosy  women,  were  busy  stitching  baby 
clothes.  Children  already  arrived  were  playing  with  a 
soap-box  and  choice  pebbles  and  a  tin  mug  at  keeping 
saloon.  A  sunburned-haired,  flaming  maiden  of  six 
teen  was  at  work  upon  a  dress  of  white  muslin,  and  a 
young  man  of  eighteen,  brother  by  his  looks  to  the 

148 


"MA'AM?" 

younger  saloon-keeper,  heartily  feasted  a  pair  of  honest 
blue  eyes  upon  her  plump  hands  as  they  came  and 
went  with  the  needle.  It  looked  as  if  another  year 
might  see  a  third  saloon  in  Grub  City. 

Saterlee  approached  the  group,  some  of  whose  elders 
had  been  watching  and  discussing  his  approach. 

"Do  any  of  you  own  a  boat?"  he  asked. 

"Train  D-railed?"  queried  the  proprietor  of  the 
Life-Saving  Station,  "or  was  you  just  out  for  a  walk  ?" 

The  family  and  family-in-law  laughed  appreciatively. 

"The  train  put  to  sea  in  a  washout,"  said  Saterlee, 
"and  all  the  passengers  were  drowned." 

"Where  you  want  to  git?"  asked  the  proprietor. 

" Carcasonne,"  said  Saterlee.  "Not  the  junction — 
the  resort." 

"Well,"  said  the  proprietor,  "there's  just  one  horse 
and  just  one  trap  in  Grub  City,  and  they  ain't  for  hire." 

Again  the  united  families  laughed  appreciatively. 
It  was  evident  that  a  prophet  is  not  always  without 
honor  in  his  own  land. 

"We've  no  use  for  them,"  said  the  great  man,  with 
the  noble  abandoning  gesture  of  a  Spanish  grandee 
about  to  present  a  horse  to  a  man  travelling  by  canoe. 
And  he  added:  "So  they're  for  sale.  Now  what  do 
you  think  they'd  be  worth  to  you?" 

All  the  honest  blue  eyes,  and  there  were  no  other 
colors,  widened  upon  Saterlee. 

149 


"MA'AM?" 

"  Fifty  dollars,"  he  said,  as  one  accustomed  to  busi 
ness. 

It  was  then  that  a  panting,  female  voice  was  raised 
behind  him.  " Sixty  dollars!" 

His  showy  acquaintance  of  the  dining-car  had  fol 
lowed  him  along  the  ties  as  fast  as  she  could,  and  was 
just  come  up. 

"I  thought  you  two  was  a  trust,"  commented  the  pro 
prietor's  wife,  pausing  with  her  needle  in  the  air.  "  But 
it  seems  you  ain't  even  a  community  of  interests." 

"Seventy  dollars,"  said  Saterlee  quietly. 

The  lady  advanced  to  his  side,  counting  the  change 
in  her  purse. 

"Seventy-six  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents,"  she  said. 

"Eighty  dollars,"  said  Saterlee. 

"Oh!"  cried  the  lady,  "seventy-six  eighty-five  is 
every  cent  I've  got  with  me — and  you're  no  gentleman 
to  bid  higher." 

"Eighty,"  repeated  Saterlee. 

"Eighty  dollars,"  said  the  son-in-law,  "for  a  horse 
and  buggy  that  a  man's  never  seen  is  too  good  to  be 
true." 

"They  are  yours,  sir,"  said  the  father-in-law,  and  he 
turned  to  his  daughter's  husband.  "Is  that  horse  in 
your  cellar  or  in  mine?"  he  asked.  "I  ain't  set  eyes 
on  her  since  February." 

The  son-in-law,  sent  to  fetch  the  horse,  first  paused 
150 


"MA'AM?" 

at  the  cellar  door  of  the  Life-Saving  Station,  then,  with 
a  shake  of  the  head  and  an  "I  remember  now"  expres 
sion,  he  approached  and  entered  the  subterrene  of  his 
own  house  and  business,  and  disappeared,  saying: 
"  Whoa,  there !  Steady  you ! " 

Saterlee  turned  quietly  to  the  angry  and  tearful  vision 
whom  he  had  so  callously  outbid. 

"Ma'am,"  he  said,  "if  we  come  to  my  stop  first  or 
thereabouts,  the  buggy  is  yours  to  go  on  with.  If  we 
reach  yours  first,  it's  mine." 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed,  her  face  brightening,  "how 
good  you  are.  But  you'll  let  me  go  halves  on  the  pur 
chase  money." 

"If  I  appeared  rude  just  now,"  he  said,  "it  was  to 
save  a  lady's  pocket.  Now  then,  you've  wet  them  high- 
heeled  shoes.  Wherever  you're  going,  it's  a  long  drive. 
Let's  go  inside  and  dry  our  feet  while  they're  hitching 
up.  Which  is  your  house  ?  " 

The  proprietor  of  the  Life-Saving  Station  indicated 
that  building  with  his  thumb,  and  told  his  daughter  of 
the  white  muslin  dress  to  kindle  a  fire  in  the  stove. 
She  slid  her  future  wedding  finery  into  a  large  paper 
bag,  and  entered  the  saloon  by  the  "Family  Entrance," 
ardently  followed  by  her  future  husband. 

The  proprietor,  Saterlee,  and  the  showy  lady  followed 
more  slowly,  discussing  roads. 

"Now,"  said  Saterlee,  "if  you're  going  further  than 
151 


"MA'AM?" 

Carcasonne  Junction,  I'll  get  off  there.  And  either 
I'll  walk  to  the  hotel  or  hire  another  trap." 

"Why!"  exclaimed  the  lady,  "are  you  bound  for 
Carcasonne  House?  So  am  I." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Saterlee  elegantly,  "we'll  go 
the  whole  hog  together." 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  lady  primly. 

"You'd  ought  to  make  Carcasonne  House  by  mid 
night,"  said  the  proprietor.  "Put  your  feet  up  on  that 
there  stove." 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  the  lady.  "And  if  we  don't 
make  it  by  midnight?" 

"We  will  by  one  or  two  o'clock." 

The  lady  became  very  grave. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "it  can't  be  helped.  But  it 
would  be  ever  so  much  nicer  if  we  could  get  in  before 
midnight." 

"I  take  your  point,  Ma'am,"  said  Saterlee.  "Be 
fore  midnight  is  just  a  buggy  ride — after  midnight 
means  being  out  all  night  together.  I  feel  for  you, 
Ma'am,  but  I'm  dinged  if  I  see  how  we  can  help  our 
selves.  It's  five  now."  He  counted  on  his  fingers: 
"six — seven — eight — nine — ten — 'leven — twelve — seven 
hours — seven  into  forty — five  and  five-sevenths.  .  .  . 
Ma'am,"  he  said,  "I  can  promise  nothing.  It's  all  up 
to  the  horse." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  lady,  "it  doesn't  really  matter. 
152 


"MA'AM?" 

But,"  and  she  spoke  a  little  bitterly,  "several  times  in 
my  life  my  actions  and  my  motives  have  been  open  to 
misconstruction,  and  they  have  been  misconstrued.  I 
have  suffered,  sir,  much." 

"Well,  Ma'am,"  said  Saterlee,  "my  reputation  as  a 
married  man  and  a  father  of  many  children  is  mixed 
up  in  this,  too.  If  we  are  in  late — or  out  late  rather — 
and  there's  any  talk — I  guess  I  can  quiet  some  of  it.  I 
rather  guess  I  can." 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  a  vast,  round,  deep  man,  glowing 
with  health  and  energy. 

"I  once  quieted  a  bull,  Ma'am,"  said  he,  "by  the 
horns.  I  would  a  held  him  till  help  came  if  one  of 
the  horns  hadn't  come  off,  and  he  ran  away." 

The  proprietor  entered  the  conversation  with  an  in 
sinuating  wedge  of  a  voice. 

"I  don't  like  to  mind  other  folks'  business,"  he  said, 
"  but  if  the  lady  is  fretting  about  bein'  out  all  night  with 
a  total  stranger,  I  feel  it  my  dooty  to  remark  that  in 
Grub  City  there  is  a  justice  of  the  peace."  He  bowed 
and  made  a  gesture  which  either  indicated  his  whole 
person,  or  that  smug  and  bulging  portion  of  it  to  which 
the  gesture  was  more  directly  applied. 

Saterlee  and  the  lady  did  not  look  at  each  other  and 
laugh.  They  were  painfully  embarrassed. 

"  Nothing  like  a  sound  splice,"  suggested  the  Justice, 
still  hopeful  of  being  helpful.  "Failing  that,  you've  a 

153 


"MA'AM?" 

long  row  to  hoe,  and  I  suggest  a  life  saver  for  the  gent 
and  a  nip  o'  the  same  for  the  lady.  Fd  like  you  to  see 
the  bar,"  he  added.  "Mine  is  the  show  place  of  this 
here  city — mirrors — peacock  feathers — Ariadne  in  the 
nood — cash  register — and  everything  hunky-dunk." 

"We'll  go  you,"  said  Saterlee.  "At  any  rate,  I 
will." 

"Oh,  I  must  see,  too,"  said  the  lady,  and  both  were 
relieved  at  the  turn  which  the  conversation  had  taken. 

The  proprietor  removed  the  cheese-cloth  fly  protector 
from  the  two-by-three  mirror  over  the  bar,  slipped  a 
white  jacket  over  his  blue  shirt,  and  rubbed  his  hands 
together  invitingly,  as  if  washing  them. 

"What's  your  pleasure,  gents?"  said  he. 

As  the  lady  approached  the  bar  she  stumbled.  Sa 
terlee  caught  her  by  the  elbow. 

"That  rail  down  there,"  he  said,  "ain't  to  trip  over. 
It's  to  rest  your  foot  on.  So."  He  showed  her.  With 
the  first  sign  of  humor  that  she  had  shown,  the  lady 
suddenly  and  very  capitally  mimicked  his  attitude. 
And  in  a  tough  voice  (really  an  excellent  piece  of  act 
ing):  "What's  yours,  kid?"  she  said.  And  then 
blushed  to  the  eyes,  and  was  very  much  ashamed  of 
herself.  But  Saterlee  and  the  bartender  were  de 
lighted.  They  roared  with  laughter. 

"Next  thing,"  said  the  bartender,  "she'll  pull  a  gun 
and  shoot  up  the  place." 

154 


"MA'AM?" 

Saterlee  said:  "Rye." 

"I  want  to  be  in  it,"  said  the  lady.  "Can  you  make 
me  something  that  looks  like  a  drink,  and  isn't?" 

"Scotch,"  said  the  proprietor  without  hesitation. 

"No — no,"  she  said.     "Water  and  coloring  matter." 

She  was  fitted  finally  with  a  pony  of  water  containing 
a  few  drops  of  Spanish  Red  and  an  olive. 

The  three  touched  glasses  and  wished  each  other 
luck  all  around.  Saterlee  paid  eighty  dollars  and  some 
change  across  the  bar.  But  the  proprietor  pushed 
back  the  change. 

"The  drinks,"  he  said  grandly,  "was  on  the  house." 


Ill 

The  united  families  bade  them  farewell,  and  Sater 
lee  brought  down  the  whip  sharply  upon  the  bony 
flank  of  the  old  horse  which  he  had  bought.  But  not 
for  a  whole  minute  did  the  sensation  caused  by  the 
whip  appear  to  travel  to  the  ancient  mare's  brain. 
Not  till  reaching  a  deep  puddle  did  she  seem  suddenly 
aware  of  the  fact  that  she  had  been  whipped.  Then, 
however,  she  rushed  through  the  puddle,  covering  Sa 
terlee  and  the  lady  with  mud,  and  having  reached  the 
other  side,  fell  once  more  into  a  halting  walk. 

The  lady  was  tightly  wedged  between  Saterlee  and 
the  side  of  the  buggy.  Every  now  and  then  Saterlee 

155 


"  MA'AM?" 

made  a  tremendous  effort  to  make  himself  narrower, 
but  it  was  no  use. 

"If  you  begin  to  get  numb,"  he  said,  "  tell  me,  and  I'll 
get  out  and  walk  a  spell.  .  .  .  How  clear  the  air  is! 
Seems  as  if  you  could  stretch  out  your  hand  and 
touch  the  mountains.  Do  you  see  that  shadow  half 
way  up — on  the  left — about  three  feet  off  ?  Carcasonne 
House  is  somewhere  in  that  shadow.  And  it's  forty 
miles  away." 

Once  more  the  road  ran  under  a  shallow  of  water. 
And  once  more  the  old  mare  remembered  that  she  had 
been  whipped,  and  made  a  rush  for  it.  Fresh  mud 
was  added  to  that  which  had  already  dried  upon  them 
by  the  dry  miracle  of  the  air. 

"She'd  ought  to  have  been  a  motor-boat,"  said  Sater- 
lee,  the  mud  which  had  entered  his  mouth  gritting 
unpleasantly  between  his  teeth.  "Last  year  there  was 
one  spring  hole  somewhere  in  these  parts — this  year 
it's  all  lakes  and  rivers — never  was  such  rains  before 
in  the  memory  of  man.  Wonder  what  Gila  River's 
doing?" 

"What  is  Gila  River?"  she  asked. 

"It's  a  sand  gully,"  he  said,  "that  winds  down  from 
the  mountains,  and  out  across  the  plain,  like  a  sure 
enough  river.  Only  there's  no  water  in  it,  only  a  damp 
spot  here  and  there.  But  I  was  thinking  that  maybe  it'll 
be  going  some  now.  We  ought  to  strike  it  before  dark." 

156 


"MA'AM?" 

The  mare  rushed  through  another  puddle. 

The  lady  laughed.  "Please  don't  bother  to  hold 
her,"  she  said;  "I  don't  mind — now." 

"I  guess  your  dress  ain't  really  hurt,"  commented 
Saterlee.  "I  remember  my  old  woman — Anna — had  a 
brown  silk  that  got  a  mud  bath,  and  came  through  all 
right." 

"This  is  an  old  rag,  anyway,"  said  the  showy  lady, 
who  was  still  showy  in  spite  of  a  wart-like  knot  of  dried 
mud  on  the  end  of  her  nose.  And  she  glanced  at  her 
spattered  but  graceful  and  expensive  white  linen  and 
hand-embroidered  dress. 

"Well,  I  can  see  one  thing,"  said  Saterlee,  "that 
you've  made  up  your  mind  to  go  through  this  experience 
like  a  good  sport.  I  wish  I  didn't  have  to  take  up  so 
much  room." 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  "I  like  to  think  that  I  could 
go  to  sleep  without  danger  of  falling  out." 

"That's  so— that's  so,"  said  Saterlee.  "Maybe  it's 
just  as  well  we're  something  of  a  tight  fit." 

"I  have  always  mistrusted  thin  men,"  said  the  lady, 
and  she  hastily  added:  "  Not  that  you're  fat." 

"My  bones  are  covered,"  said  Saterlee;  "I  admit 
it." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "but  with  big  muscles  and  sinews." 

"I  am  not  weak,"  said  Saterlee;  "I  admit  it." 

"What  air  this  is,"  exclaimed  the  lady;  "what  de- 
157 


"MA'AM?" 

licious  air.     No  wonder  it  cures  people  with  lung  trou 
ble.     Still,  I'm  glad  mine  are  sound." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Ma'am,"  said  Sater- 
lee.  "  When  you  said  you  were  bound  for  Carcasonne 
House,  I  thought  to  myself,  '  Mebbe  she's  got  it,'  and  I 
felt  mighty  sorry." 

"Do  I  look  like  a  consumptive?"  she  asked. 

"Bless  me — no,"  said  he.  "But  you're  not  stout, 
and,  considering  where  you  said  you  was  going,  you 
mustn't  blame  me  for  putting  two  and  two  together  and 
getting  the  wrong  answer." 

"I  don't  blame  you  at  all,"  she  said,  but  a  little 
stiffly.  "It  was  perfectly  natural.  No,"  she  said, 
"my  daughter  is  at  Carcasonne  House.  She  had  a 
very  heavy  cold — and  other  troubles — and  two  doctors 
agreed  that  her  lungs  were  threatened.  Well,  perhaps 
they  were.  I  sent  her  to  Carcasonne  House  on  the 
doctors'  recommendation.  And  it  seems  that  she's 
just  as  sound  as  I  am." 

"What  a  relief  to  you,  Ma'am,"  said  Saterlee 
hastily. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  but  without  enthusiasm,  "a  great 
relief." 

He  screwed  his  massive  head  around  on  his  massive 
neck,  not  without  difficulty,  and  looked  at  her.  His 
voice  sounded  hurt. 

"You  don't  seem  very  glad,  Ma'am,"  he  said. 
158 


"MA'AM?" 

Her  answer,  on  a  totally  different  topic,  surprised 
him. 

"Do  you  believe  in  blood  ?"  she  said.  "Do  you  be 
lieve  that  blood  will — must  tell?" 

"Ma'am,"  he  said,  "if  I  can  draw  my  check  for 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  it's  because  I  was  born 
believing  that  blood  will  tell.  It's  because  I've  acted 
on  it  all  my  life.  And  it's  the  truth,  and  I've  made  a 
fortune  out  of  it.  ...  Cattle,"  he  added  in  explana 
tion. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  think  of  women,"  she  said, 
"who  talk  of  their  affairs  to  strangers.  But  my  heart 
is  so  full  of  mine.  I  did  so  hope  to  reach  Carcasonne 
early  this  evening.  It  don't  seem  to  me  as  if  I  could 
stand  hours  and  hours  behind  that  horse  without  talk 
ing  to  some  one.  Do  you  mind  if  I  talk  to  you  ?"  she 
appealed.  "Somehow  you're  so  big  and  steady-minded 
— you  don't  seem  like  a  stranger." 

"Ma'am,"  said  Saterlee,  the  most  chivalrous  courtesy 
in  his  voice,  for  hers  had  sounded  truly  distressed,  "fire 
away!" 

"It's  about  my  daughter,"  she  said.  "She  has  made 
up  her  mind  to  marry  a  young  man  whom  I  scarcely 
know.  But  about  him  and  his  antecedents  I  know 
this:  that  his  father  has  buried  three  wives." 

The  blood  rushed  into  Saterlee's  face  and  nearly 
strangled  him.  But  the  lady,  who  was  leaning  for- 

159 


"MA'AM?" 

ward,  elbows  on  knees  and  face  between  hands,  did  not 
perceive  this  convulsion  of  nature. 

"If  blood  counts  for  anything,"  said  she,  "the  son 
has  perhaps  the  same  brutish  instincts.  A  nice  pros 
pect  for  my  girl — to  suffer — to  die — and  to  be  super 
seded.  The  man's  second  wife  was  in  her  grave  but 
three  weeks  when  he  had  taken  a  third.  I  am  told  he 
is  a  great,  rough,  bullying  man.  No  wonder  the  poor 
souls  died.  The  son  is  a  tremendous  great  fellow, 
too.  Oh!  blood  will  tell  every  time,"  she  exclaimed. 
"M.  A.  Saterlee,  the  cattle  man — do  you  know  him?" 

"Yep!"  Saterlee  managed,  with  an  effort  that  would 
have  moved  a  ton. 

"I  am  going  to  appeal  to  her,"  said  the  lady.  "I 
have  been  a  good  mother  to  her.  I  have  suffered  for 
her.  And  she  must — she  shall — listen  to  me." 

"  If  I  can  help  in  any  way,"  said  Saterlee,  somewhat 
grimly,  "you  can  count  on  me.  .  .  .  Not,"  he  said  a 
little  later,  "that  I'm  in  entire  sympathy  with  your 
views,  Ma'am.  .  .  .  Now,  if  you'd  said  this  man  Sa 
terlee  had  divorced  three  wives.  .  .  ." 

The  lady  started.  And  in  her  turn  suffered  from  a 
torrential  rush  of  blood  to  the  face.  Saterlee  per 
ceived  it  through  her  spread  fingers,  and  was  pleased. 

"If  you  had  said  that  this  man,"  he  went  on,  "had 
tired  of  his  first  wife  and  had  divorced  her,  or  been 
divorced  by  her,  because  his  desire  was  to  another 

160 


"MA'AM?" 

woman,  then  I  would  go  your  antipathy  for  him, 
Ma'am.  But  I  understand  he  buried  a  wife,  and  took 
another,  and  so  on.  There  is  a  difference.  Because 
God  Almighty  Himself  says  in  one  of  His  books  that 
man  was  not  meant  to  live  alone.  Mebbe,  Ma'am,  the 
agony  of  losing  a  faithful  and  tender  companion  is 
what  sets  a  man — some  men — to  looking  for  a  suc 
cessor.  Mebbe  the  more  a  man  loved  his  dead  wife 
the  quicker  is  he  driven  to  find  a  living  woman  that 
he  can  love.  But  for  people  who  can't  cling  together 
until  death — and  death  alone  part  'em — for  such  peo 
ple,  Ma'am,  I  don't  give  a  ding." 

"And  you  are  wrong,"  said  the  lady,  who,  although 
nettled  by  the  applicability  of  his  remarks  to  her  own 
case,  had  recovered  her  composure.  "Let  us  say  that 
a  good  woman  marries  a  man,  and  that  he  dies — not 
the  death — but  dies  to  her.  Tires  of  her,  carries  his 
love  to  another,  and  all  that.  Isn't  he  as  dead,  even  if 
she  loved  him,  as  if  he  had  really  died  ?  He  is  dead  to 
her — buried — men  don't  come  back.  Well,  maybe  the 
more  she  loved  that  man  the  quicker  she  is  to  get  the 
service  read  over  him — that's  divorce — and  find  an 
other  whom  she  can  trust  and  love.  Suppose  that 
happens  to  her  twice.  The  cases  would  seem  identical, 
sir,  I  think.  Except  that  I  could  understand  divor 
cing  a  man  who  had  become  intolerable  to  me;  but  I 
could  never,  never  fancy  myself  marrying  again — if 

161 


"MA'AM?" 

my  husband,  in  the  course  of  nature,  had  died  still  lov 
ing  me,  still  faithful  to  me.  So  you  see  the  cases  are 
not  identical.  And  that  only  remarriage  after  divorce 
is  defensible." 

"I  take  your  point,"  said  Saterlee.  She  had  spoken 
warmly  and  vehemently,  with  an  honest  ring  in  her 
voice.  "I  have  never  thought  of  it  along  those  lines. 
See  that  furrow  across  the  road — that's  where  a  snake 
has  crossed.  But  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Ma'am, 
that  I  myself  have  buried  more  than  one  wife.  And 
yet  when  I  size  myself  up  to  myself  I  don't  seem  a 
regular  hell-hound." 

"If  we  are  to  be  on  an  honest  footing,"  said  the  lady, 
"I  must  tell  you  that  I  have  divorced  more  than  one 
husband,  and  yet  when  I  size  myself  up,  as  you  call  it, 
I  do  not  seem  to  myself  a  lost  woman.  It's  true  that 
I  act  for  my  living " 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted,  "you  are  Mrs.  Kimbal. 
But  I  thought  I  knew  more  about  you  than  I  seem  to. 
I'm  Saterlee.  And  my  business  at  Carcasonne  House 
is  the  same  as  yours." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.     And  then : 

"Well,"  she  said,  "here  we  are.  And  that's  lucky 
in  a  way.  We  both  seem  to  want  the  same  thing — 
that  is,  to  keep  our  children  from  marrying  each  other. 
We  can  talk  the  matter  over  and  decide  how  to  do  it." 

"We  can  talk  it  over  anyway,  as  you  say,"  said 
162 


"MA'AM?" 

Saterlee.  But — "  and  he  fished  in  his  pocket  and 
brought  out  his  son's  letter  and  gave  it  to  her.  She 
read  it  in  the  waning  light. 

"But,"  he  repeated  gently,  "that  don't  read  like  a 
letter  that  a  brute  of  a  son  would  write  to  a  brute  of  a 
father;  now,  does  it?" 

She  did  not  answer.  But  she  opened  her  purse  and 
took  out  a  carefully  and  minutely  folded  sheet  of  note- 
paper. 

"That's  my  Dolly's  letter  to  me,"  she  said,  "and  it 
doesn't  sound  like — "  her  voice  broke.  He  took  the 
letter  from  her  and  read  it. 

"No,  it  doesn't,"  he  said.  And  he  said  it  roughly, 
because  nothing  brought  rough  speech  out  of  the  man 
so  surely  as  tears — when  they  were  in  his  own  eyes. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Kimbal  with  a  sigh,  "let's  talk." 

"No,"  said  Saterlee,  "let's  think." 


IV 

They  could  hear  from  far  ahead  a  sound  as  of  roar 
ing  waters. 

"That,"  said  Saterlee  dryly,  "will  be  Gila  River. 
Mebbe  we'll  have  to  think  about  getting  across  that 
first.  It's  a  river  now,  by  the  sound  of  it,  if  it  never 
was  before." 

"Fortunately  it's  not  dark  yet,"  said  Mrs.  Kimbal. 
163 


"MA'AM?" 

"The  last  time  I  had-  trouble  with  a  river,"  said 
Saterlee,  "was  when  my  first  wife  died.  That  was  the 
American  River  in  flood.  I  had  to  cross  it  to  get  a 
doctor.  We'd  gone  prospectin' — just  the  old  woman 
and  me — more  for  a  lark  than  profit." 

"Yes?"  said  Mrs.  Kimbal  sympathetically. 

"She  took  sick  in  an  hour,"  he  went  on.  "From 
what  I've  heard  since,  I  guess  it  was  appendicitis. 
Anyway,  I  rode  off  for  help,  hell  for  leather,  and  when 
I  come  to  the  river  the  whole  thing  was  roaring  and 
foaming  like  a  waterfall.  My  horse,  and  he  was  a 
good  one,  couldn't  make  it.  But  I  did.  And  when  I 
come  to  it  on  the  return  trip  with  the  doctor,  he  gave 
one  look  and  folded  his  arms.  'Mark,'  he  said,  'I'm 
no  boaster,  but  my  life  is  not  without  value.  I  think 
it's  my  duty  not  to  attempt  this  crossing.'  'Jim,'  I 
said,  'if  you  don't  your  soul  will  be  scotched.  Don't 
you  know  it?  Folks'll  point  at  you  as  the  doctor  that 
didn't  dare.'  'It's  not  the  daring,  Mark,'  he  says,  'it's 
wanting  to  be  sure  that  I  make  the  right  choice.'  I 
says:  'She  was  in  terrible  pain,  Jim.  Many  a  time 
she's  done  you  a  good  turn;  some  you  know  of,  some 
you  don't.'  That  fetched  him.  He  caught  up  his 
bridle  and  drove  his  spurs  into  his  horse,  and  was 
swept  down-stream  like  a  leaf.  I  rode  along  the  bank 
to  help  if  I  could.  But  he  got  across  on  a  long  diagonal 
— horse  and  all.  I  waved  to  him  to  go  on  and  not 

164 


"MA'AM?" 

mind  about  me.  And  he  rode  off  at  the  gallop.  But 
I  was  too  heavy,  I  guess.  I  lost  my  second  horse  in 
that  flood,  and  had  to  foot  it  into  camp.  I  was  too 
late.  Pain  had  made  her  unconscious,  and  she  was 
dead.  But  before  givin'  in  she'd  wrote  me  a  letter." 
He  broke  off  short.  "And  there's  Gila  River,"  he 
said. 

"I  hoped  you  were  going  to  tell  me  what  your  poor 
wife  said  in  her  letter,"  said  Mrs.  Kimbal. 

"Oh,  Ma'am,"  he  said,  hesitated,  cleared  his  throat, 
and  became  routed  and  confused. 

"If  you'd  rather  not — "  said  Mrs.  Kimbal. 

"It  isn't  that,"  he  said.  "It  would  seem  like 
bragging." 

"Surely  not,"  she  said. 

Saterlee,  with  his  eyes  on  the  broad,  brown  flood 
which  they  were  approaching,  repeated  like  a  lesson: 

"  'Mark — I'm  dying.  I  want  it  to  do  good,  not 
harm.  Jenny  always  thought  the  world  of  you.  You'll 
be  lonely  when  I'm  gone.  I  don't  want  you  to  be 
lonely.  You  gave  me  peace  on  earth.  And  you  can't 
be  happy  unless  you've  got  a  woman  to  pet  and  pam 
per.  That's  your  nature '  " 

He  paused. 

"That  was  all,"  he  said,  and  wiped  his  forehead 
with  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "It  just  stopped  there." 

"I'm  glad  you  told  me,"  said  Mrs.  Kimbal  gently. 
165 


"MA'AM?" 

"It  will  be  a  lesson  to  me  not  to  spring  to  conclusions, 
and  not  to  make  up  my  mind  about  things  I'm  not 
familiar  with." 

When  they  came  to  where  the  road  disappeared 
under  the  swift  unbroken  brown  of  Gila  River,  the  old 
horse  paused  of  her  own  accord,  and,  turning  her  bony 
and  scarred  head  a  half  revolution,  stared  almost 
rudely  at  the  occupants  of  the  buggy. 

"It  all  depends,"  said  Saterlee,  "how  deep  the  water 
runs  over  the  road,  and  whether  we  can  keep  to  the 
road.  You  see,  it  comes  out  higher  up  than  it  goes  in. 
Can  you  swim,  Ma'am?" 

Mrs.  Kimbal  admitted  that,  in  clothes  made  to  the 
purpose,  and  in  very  shallow  water,  she  was  not  with 
out  proficiency. 

"Would  you  rather  we  turned  back?"  he  asked. 

"I  feel  sure  you'll  get  me  over,"  said  she. 

"Then,"  said  Saterlee,  "let's  put  the  hood  down. 
In  case  we  do  capsize,  we  don't  want  to  get  caught 
under  it." 

Saterlee  on  his  side,  and  Mrs.  Kimbal,  not  without 
exclamations  of  annoyance,  on  hers,  broke  the  toggle- 
joints  that  held  the  dilapidated  hood  in  place,  and 
thrust  it  backward  and  down.  At  once  the  air  seemed 
to  circulate  with  greater  freshness. 

For  some  moments  Saterlee  considered  the  river, 
up-stream,  down-stream,  and  across,  knitting  his  brows 

166 


"MA'AM?" 

to  see  better,  for  the  light  was  failing  by  leaps  and 
bounds.     Then,  in  an  embarrassed  voice: 

"I've  got  to  do  it,"  he  said.     "It's  only  right." 

"What?"  said  Mrs.  Kimbal. 

"I  feel  sure,"  he  said,  "that  under  the  circumstances 
you'll  make  every  allowance,  Ma'am." 

Without  further  hesitation — in  fact,  with  almost 
desperate  haste,  as  if  wishing  to  dispose  of  a  disagree 
able  duty — he  ripped  open  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat 
and  removed  it  at  the  same  time  with  his  coat,  as  if 
the  two  had  been  but  one  garment.  He  tossed  them 
into  the  bottom  of  the  buggy  in  a  disorderly  heap. 
But  Mrs.  Kimbal  rescued  them,  separated  them,  folded 
them  neatly,  and  stowed  them  under  the  seat. 

Saterlee  made  no  comment.  He  was  thinking  of  the 
state  of  a  shirt  that  he  had  had  on  since  early  morn 
ing,  and  was  wondering  how,  with  his  elbows  pressed 
very  tightly  to  his  sides,  he  could  possibly  manage  to 
unlace  his  boots.  He  made  one  or  two  tentative 
efforts.  But  Mrs.  Kimbal  seemed  to  divine  the  cause 
of  his  embarrassment. 

" Please"  she  said,  "don't  mind  anything — on  my 
account." 

He  reached  desperately,  and  regardlessly,  for  his 
boots,  unlaced  them,  and  took  them  off. 

"Why,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Kimbal,  "both  your  heels 
need  darning!" 

167 


"MA'AM?" 

Saterlee  had  tied  his  boots  together,  and  was  fasten 
ing  them  around  his  neck  by  the  remainder  of  the  laces. 

"  I  haven't  anybody  to  do  my  darning  now,"  he  said. 
"My  girls  are  all  at  school,  except  two  that's  married. 
So — "  He  finished  his  knot,  took  the  reins  in  his  left 
hand  and  the  whip  in  his  right. 

At  first  the  old  mare  would  not  budge.  Switching 
was  of  no  avail.  Saterlee  brought  down  the  whip  upon 
her  with  a  sound  like  that  of  small  cannon.  She 
sighed  and  walked  gingerly  into  the  river. 

The  water  rose  slowly  (or  the  river  bottom  shelved 
very  gradually),  and  they  were  half-way  across  before 
it  had  reached  the  hubs  of  the  wheels.  But  the  mare 
appeared  to  be  in  deeper.  She  refused  to  advance,  and 
once  more  turned  and  stared  with  a  kind  of  wistful 
rudeness.  Then  she  saw  the  whip,  before  it  fell,  made 
a  desperate  plunge,  and  floundered  forward  into  deep 
water — but  without  the  buggy. 

One  rotten  shaft  had  broken  clean  off,  both  rotten 
traces,  and  the  reins,  upon  which  hitherto  there  had 
been  no  warning  pull,  were  jerked  from  Saterlee 's 
loose  fingers.  The  old  mare  reached  the  further  shore 
presently,  swimming  and  scrambling  upon  a  descend 
ing  diagonal,  stalked  sedately  up  the  bank,  and  then 
stood  still,  only  turning  her  head  to  look  at  the  buggy 
stranded  in  mid-stream.  The  sight  appeared  to  arouse 
whatever  of  youthful  mischief  remained  in  the  feeble 

168 


"MA'AM?" 

old  heart.  She  seemed  to  gather  herself  for  a  tremen 
dous  effort,  then  snorted  once,  and  kicked  thrice — 
three  feeble  kicks  of  perhaps  six  inches  in  the  per 
pendicular. 

Mrs.  Kimbal  exploded  into  laughter. 

"Wouldn't  you  know  she  was  a  woman?"  she  said. 

But  Saterlee  was  climbing  out  of  the  buggy. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "if  you'll  just  tie  my  coat  round 
your  neck  by  the  sleeves — let  the  vest  go  hang — and 
then  you'll  have  to  let  me  carry  you." 

Mrs.  Kimbal  did  as  she  was  told.  But  the  buggy, 
relieved  at  last  of  all  weight,  slid  off  sidewise  with  the 
current,  turned  turtle,  and  was  carried  swiftly  down 
stream.  Saterlee  staggering,  for  the  footing  was  un 
certain,  and  holding  Mrs.  Kimbal  high  in  his  arms, 
started  for  shore.  The  water  rose  above  his  waist, 
and  kept  rising.  He  halted,  bracing  himself  against 
the  current. 

"Ma'am,"  he  said  in  a  discouraged  voice,  "it's  no 
use.  I've  just  got  to  let  you  get  wet.  We've  got  to 
swim  to  make  it." 

"All  right,"  she  said  cheerfully. 

"Some  folks,"  he  said,  "likes  to  go  overboard  sud 
den;  some  likes  to  go  in  by  degrees." 

"  Between  the  two  for  me,"  said  Mrs.  Kimbal.  "  Not 
suddenly,  but  firmly  and  without  hesitation." 

She  gave  a  little  shivery  gasp. 
169 


"MA'AM?" 

"It's  not  really  cold,"  she  said.  "How  strong  the 
current  pulls.  Will  you  have  to  swim  and  tow  me?" 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"Then  wait,"  she  said.  "Don't  let  me  be  carried 
away." 

He  steadied  her  while  she  drew  the  hat-pins  from  her 
hat  and  dropped  it  as  carelessly  on  the  water  as  if  that 
had  been  her  dressing-table.  Then  she  took  down  her 
hair.  It  was  in  two  great  brown,  shining  braids.  The 
ends  disappeared  in  the  water,  listing  down-stream. 

Shorn  of  her  hat  and  her  elaborate  hair-dressing,  the 
lady  was  no  longer  showy,  and  Saterlee,  out  of  the  tail 
of  an  admiring  eye,  began  to  see  real  beauties  about 
her  that  had  hitherto  eluded  him.  Whatever  other 
good  qualities  and  virtues  she  may  have  tossed  over 
board  during  a  stormy  and  unhappy  life,  she  had  still 
her  nerve  with  her.  So  Saterlee  told  himself. 

"It  will  be  easier,  won't  it,"  she  said,  "if  you  have 
my  hair  to  hold  by  ?  I  think  I  can  manage  to  keep  on 
my  back." 

"May  I,  Ma'am?"  said  Saterlee. 

She  laughed  at  his  embarrassment.  And  half-thrust 
the  two  great  braids  into  the  keeping  of  his  strong  left 
hand. 

A  moment  later  Saterlee  could  no  longer  keep  his 
footing. 

"Now,  Ma'am,"  he  said,  "just  let  yourself  go." 
170 


"  MA'AM?" 

And  he  swam  to  shallow  water,  not  without  great 
labor,  towing  Mrs.  Kimbal  by  the  hair.  But  here  he 
picked  her  up  in  his  arms,  this  time  with  no  word 
spoken,  and  carried  her  ashore.  Some  moments 
passed. 

"Well,"  she  said,  laughing,  "aren't  you  going  to  put 
me  down?" 

"Oh!"  said  he,  terribly  confused,  "I  forgot.  I  was 
just  casting  an  eye  around  for  that  horse.  She's 
gone." 

"Never  mind— we'll  walk." 

"It'll  be  heavy  going,  wet  as  you  are,"  said  he. 

"I'll  soon  be  dry  in  this  air,"  she  said. 

Saterlee  managed  to  pull  his  boots  on  over  his  wet 
socks,  and  Mrs.  Kimbal,  having  given  him  his  wet  coat 
from  her  neck,  stooped  and  wrung  as  much  water  as 
she  could  from  her  clothes. 

It  was  now  nearly  dark,  but  they  found  the  road  and 
went  on. 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"My  watch  was  in  my  vest,"  said  Saterlee. 

"How  far  to  Carcasonne  House?" 

"'Bout  thirty  miles." 

She  did  not  speak  again  for  some  time. 

"Well,"  she  said,  a  little  hardness  in  her  voice, 
"you'll  hardly  be  in  time  to  steer  your  boy  away  from 
my  girl." 

171 


"MA'AM?" 

"No,"  said  he,  "I  won't.  An'  you'll  hardly  be  in 
time  to  steer  your  girl  away  from  my  boy." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "you  misconceive  me  entirely,  Mr. 
Saterlee.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  my  only  regret  now 
is  that  I  shan't  be  in  time  to  dance  at  the  wedding." 

"Ma'am?"  he  said,  and  there  was  something  husky 
in  his  voice. 


About  midnight  they  saw  a  light,  and,  forsaking 
what  they  believed  in  hopeful  moments  to  be  the  road, 
they  made  for  it  across  country.  Across  open  spaces 
of  sand,  into  gullies  and  out  of  gullies,  through  sting 
ing  patches  of  yucca  and  prickly  pear,  through  breast- 
high  chaparral,  meshed,  knotted,  and  matted,  like  a 
clumsy  weaving  together  of  very  tough  ropes,  some  with 
thorns,  and  all  with  sharp  points  and  elbows. 

They  had  long  since  dispensed  with  all  conversation 
except  what  bore  on  their  situation.  Earlier  in  the 
night  the  darkness  and  the  stars  had  wormed  a  story 
of  divorce  out  of  Mrs.  Kimbal,  and  Saterlee  had  found 
himself  longing  to  have  the  man  at  hand  and  by  the 
throat. 

And  she  had  prattled  of  her  many  failures  on  the 
stage  and,  latterly,  of  her  more  successful  ventures,  and 
of  a  baby  boy  that  she  had  had,  and  how  that  while  she 
was  off  playing  "on  the  road"  her  husband  had  come 

172 


"MA'AM?" 

in  drunk  and  had  given  the  baby  the  wrong  medicine. 
And  it  was  about  then  that  she  had  left  off  conversing. 

For  in  joy  it  is  hard  enough  to  find  the  way  in  the 
dark,  while  for  those  in  sorrow  it  is  not  often  that  it  can 
be  found  at  all. 

The  light  proved  to  be  a  lantern  upon  the  little  porch 
of  a  ramshackle  shanty.  An  old  man  with  immense 
horn-rimmed  spectacles  was  reading  by  it  out  of  a  tat 
tered  magazine.  When  the  couple  came  close,  the  old 
man  looked  up  from  his  reading,  and  blessed  his  soul 
several  times. 

"It  do  beat  the  Dutch!"  he  exclaimed  in  whining 
nasal  tones,  "if  here  ain't  two  more." 

"Two  more  what?"  said  Saterlee. 

"It's  the  floods,  I  reckon,"  whined  the  old  man. 
"There's  three  on  the  kitchen  floor  and  there's  two 
ladies  in  my  bed.  That's  why  I'm  sittin'  up.  There 
wa'n't  no  bed  for  a  man  in  his  own  house.  But  I  found 
this  here  old  copy  of  the  Medical  Revoo,  'n'  I'm  puttin' 
in  the  time  with  erysipelis." 

"But,"  said  Saterlee,  "you  must  find  some  place  for 
this  lady  to  rest.  She  is  worn  out  with  walking  and 
hunger." 

"Stop!"  whined  the  old  man,  smiting  his  thigh,  "if 
there  ain't  that  there  mattress  in  the  loft!  And  I  clean 
forgot,  and  told  the  boys  that  I  hadn't  nothin'  better 
than  a  rug  or  two  'n  the  kitchen  floor." 

173 


"MA'AM?" 

"A  mattress!"  exclaimed  Saterlee.  "Splendid!  I 
guess  you  can  sleep  some  on  anything  near  as  good  as 
a  mattress.  Can't  you,  ma'am?" 

"Indeed  I  could!"  she  said.  "But  you  have  been 
through  as  much  as  I  have — more.  I  won't  take  it." 

The  old  man's  whine  interrupted. 

"Ain't  you  two  married?"  he  said. 

"Nop,"  said  Saterlee  shortly. 

"Now  ain't  that  ridiculous  ?"  meditated  the  old  man; 
"I  thought  you  was  all  along."  His  eyes  brightened 
behind  the  spectacles.  "It  ain't  for  me  to  interfere  in 
course,"  he  said,  "but  hereabouts  I'm  a  Justice  of  the 
Peace."  Neither  spoke. 

"I  could  rouse  up  the  boys  in  the  kitchen  for  wit 
nesses,"  he  insinuated. 

Saterlee  turned  suddenly  to  Mrs.  Kimbal,  but  his 
voice  was  very  humble. 

"Ma'am?"  he  suggested. 


174 


MR.  HOLIDAY 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

Mr.  Holiday  stepped  upon  the  rear  platform  of  his 
car,  the  Mishawaka,  exactly  two  seconds  before  the 
express,  with  a  series  of  faint,  well-oiled  jolts,  began  to 
crawl  forward  and  issue  from  beneath  the  glass  roof  of 
the  Grand  Central  into  the  damp,  pelting  snow.  Mr. 
Holiday  called  the  porter  and  told  him  for  the  good  of 
his  soul  that  fifty  years  ago  travelling  had  not  been  the 
easy  matter  that  it  was  to-day.  This  off  his  mind,  he 
pulled  an  Evening  Post  from  his  pocket  and  dismissed 
the  porter  by  beginning  to  read.  He  still  wore  his 
overcoat  and  high  silk  hat.  These  he  would  not  re 
move  until  time  had  proved  that  the  temperature  of 
his  car  was  properly  regulated. 

He  became  restless  after  a  while  and  hurried  to  the 
forward  compartment  of  the  Mishawaka  to  see  if  all 
his  trunks  had  been  put  on.  He  counted  them  over 
several  times,  and  each  time  he  came  to  the  black 
trunk  he  sniffed  and  wrinkled  up  his  nose  indignantly. 
The  black  trunk  was  filled  with  the  most  ridiculous 
and  expensive  rubbish  that  he  had  ever  been  called 
upon  to  purchase.  When  his  married  daughters  and 
his  wife  had  learned,  by  "prying,"  that  he  was  going 

177 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

to  New  York  on  business,  they  had  gathered  about 
him  with  lists  as  long  as  his  arm,  and  they  had  badgered 
him  and  pestered  him  until  he  had  flown  into  a  pas 
sion  and  snatched  the  lists  and  thrown  them  on  the 
floor.  But  at  that  the  ladies  had  looked  such  indig 
nant,  heart-broken  daggers  at  him  that,  very  ungra 
ciously,  it  is  true,  and  with  language  that  made  their 
sensibilities  hop  like  peas  in  a  pan,  he  had  felt  obliged 
to  relent.  He  had  gathered  up  the  lists  and  stuffed 
them  into  his  pocket,  and  had  turned  away  with  one 
bitter  and  awful  phrase. 

"Waste  not,  want  not!"  he  had  said. 

He  now  glared  and  sniffed  at  the  black  trunk,  and 
called  for  the  porter. 

"Do  you  know  what's  in  that  trunk?"  he  said  in  a 
pettish,  indignant  voice.  "It's  full  of  Christmas  pres 
ents  for  my  grandchildren.  It's  got  crocodiles  in  it 
and  lions  and  Billy  Possums  and  music-boxes  and  dolls 
and  yachts  and  steam-engines  and  spiders  and  monkeys 
and  doll's  furniture  and  china.  It  cost  me  seven 
hundred  and  forty-two  dollars  and  nine  cents  to  fill 
that  trunk.  Do  you  know  where  I  wish  it  was?" 

The  porter  did  not  know. 

"I  wish  it  was  in  Jericho!"  said  Mr.  Holiday. 

He  fingered  the  brass  knob  of  the  door  that  led  for 
ward  to  the  regular  coaches,  turned  it  presently,  and 
closed  it  behind  him. 

178 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

His  progress  through  the  train  resembled  that  of  a 
mongoose  turned  loose  in  new  quarters.  Nothing  es 
caped  his  prying  scrutiny  or  love  of  petty  information. 
If  he  came  to  a  smoking  compartment,  he  would 
thrust  aside  the  curtain  and  peer  in.  If  it  contained 
not  more  than  three  persons,  he  would  then  enter, 
seat  himself,  and  proceed  to  ask  them  personal  ques 
tions.  It  was  curious  that  people  so  seldom  resented 
being  questioned  by  Mr.  Holiday;  perhaps  his  evident 
sincerity  in  seeking  for  information  accounted  for  this; 
perhaps  the  fact  that  he  was  famous,  and  that  nearly 
everybody  in  the  country  knew  him  by  sight.  Perhaps 
it  is  impossible  for  a  little  gentleman  of  eighty,  very 
smartly  dressed,  with  a  carnation  in  his  buttonhole,  to 
be  impertinent.  And  then  he  took  such  immense  and 
childish  pleasure  in  the  answers  that  he  got,  and  some 
times  wrote  them  down  in  his  notebook,  with  com 
ments,  as: 

"Got  into  conversation  with  a  lady  with  a  flat  face. 
She  gave  me  her  age  as  forty-two.  I  should  have  said 
nearer  sixty. 

"Man  of  fifty  tells  me  has  had  wart  on  nose  for 
twenty-five  years;  has  had  it  removed  by  electrolysis 
twice,  but  it  persists.  Tell  him  that  I  have  never  had 
a  wart." 

Etc.,  etc. 

He   asked   people   their  ages,   whence   they   came, 
179 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

where  they  were  going;  what  they  did  for  a  living; 
if  they  drank;  if  they  smoked;  if  their  parents  were 
alive;  what  their  beefsteak  cost  them  a  pound;  what 
kind  of  underwear  they  wore;  what  church  they  at 
tended;  if  they  shaved  themselves;  if  married;  if 
single;  the  number  of  their  children;  why  they  did 
not  have  more  children;  how  many  trunks  they  had 
in  the  baggage-car;  whether  they  had  seen  to  it  that 
their  trunks  were  put  on  board,  etc.  Very  young  men 
sometimes  gave  him  joking  and  sportive  answers;  but 
it  did  not  take  him  long  to  catch  such  drifts,  and  he 
usually  managed  to  crush  their  sponsors  thoroughly. 
For  he  had  the  great  white  dignity  of  years  upon  his 
head;  and  the  dignity  of  two  or  three  hundred  million 
dollars  at  his  back. 

During  his  peregrinations  he  came  to  a  closed  door 
which  tempted  him  strangely.  It  was  probably  the 
door  of  a  private  state-room;  it  might  be  the  door  of  a 
dust  closet.  He  meditated,  with  his  finger  upon  the 
knob.  "I'll  just  open  it  slowly,"  he  thought,  "and  if 
I  make  a  mistake  I'll  say  I  thought  it  was  a  smoking 
compartment." 

As  the  door  opened  a  smell  of  roses  came  out.  Hud 
dled  into  the  seat  that  rides  forward  was  a  beautiful 
girl,  very  much  dishevelled  and  weeping  bitterly,  with 
her  head  upon  one  of  those  coarse  white  pillows  which 
the  Pullman  Company  provides.  Her  roses  lay  upon 

180 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

the  seat  opposite.  She  was  so  self-centred  in  her 
misery  that  she  was  not  aware  that  the  door  had  been 
opened,  a  head  thrust  in  and  withdrawn,  and  the  door 
closed.  But  she  was  sure  that  a  still,  small  voice  had 
suddenly  spoken  in  her  mind,  and  said:  "Brace  up." 
Presently  she  stopped  crying,  as  became  one  who  had 
been  made  the  subject  of  a  manifestation,  and  began 
to  put  her  hair  in  order  at  the  narrow  mirror  between 
the  two  windows.  Meanwhile,  though  Mr.  Holiday 
was  making  himself  scarce,  as  the  saying  is,  he  was 
consumed  with  interest  to  know  why  the  beautiful  girl 
was  weeping.  And  he  meant  to  find  out. 

But  in  the  meantime  another  case  provoked  his 
interest.  A  handsome  woman  of  thirty-five  occupied 
Section  7  in  Car  6.  She  was  dressed  in  close-fitting 
black,  with  a  touch  of  white  at  her  throat  and 
wrists. 

Mr.  Holiday  had  seen  her  from  the  extreme  end  of 
the  car,  and  by  the  time  he  was  opposite  to  where  she 
sat  it  became  necessary  for  him  to  have  an  answer  to 
the  questions  that  had  presented  themselves  about  her. 
Without  any  awkward  preliminaries,  he  bent  over  and 
said: 

"IVe  been  wondering,  ma'am,  if  you  are  dressed  in 
black  for  your  father  or  your  husband." 

She  looked  up,  recognized  the  famous  eccentric,  and 
smiled. 

181 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

" Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Holiday?"  she  said,  and 
made  room  for  him. 

"I  wear  black,"  she  said,  when  he  had  seated  him 
self,  anot  because  I  am  in  mourning  for  anybody,  but 
because  I  think  it's  becoming  to  me.  You  see,  I  have 
very  light-colored  hair." 

"Does  all  that  hair  grow  on  your  head?"  Mr. 
Holiday  asked,  simply  and  without  offence. 

"Every  bit  of  it,"  she  said. 

"I  have  a  splendid  head  of  hair,  too,"  he  commented. 
"But  there's  a  young  man  in  the  car  back  of  this  who'll 
be  twenty-two  years  of  age  in  February,  and  he's  got 
more  dandruff  than  hair.  Where  are  you  going?" 

"Cleveland." 

"Is  that  your  home?" 

"No.     I'm  a  bird  of  passage." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"I  am  Miss  Hampton,"  she  said,  and  she  hoped 
that  he  might  have  heard  of  her.  But  he  hadn't. 
And  she  explained  herself.  "I'm  to  play  at  the  Euclid 
Theatre  Christmas  night." 

"An  actor?"  he  said. 

"Well,"  she  admitted,  "some  say  so,  and  some  won't 
hear  of  it." 

"How  much  money  do  you  earn?" 

"Two  hundred  dollars  a  week." 

Mr.  Holiday  wrote  that  in  his  note-book. 
182 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

"I've  got  some  little  nieces  and  nephews  in  New 
York,"  she  volunteered.  "  Don't  you  think  it's  hard 
to  be  a  genuine  aunt  and  to  have  to  spend  Christmas 
alone  in  a  strange  place?" 

"Not  for  two  hundred  dollars  a  week,"  said  Mr. 
Holiday  unsympathetically.  "You  ought  to  thank  your 
stars  and  garters." 

Presently,  after  patting  her  on  the  back  with  two 
ringers,  he  rose,  bowed,  and  passed  on  down  the  aisle. 
On  the  right,  in  the  end  section,  was  a  very  old  couple, 
with  snow-white  hair,  and  a  great  deal  of  old-fashioned 
luggage.  Mr.  Holiday  greeted  them  cordially,  and 
asked  their  ages.  The  old  gentleman  was  seventy-six 
and  proud  of  it;  the  old  lady  was  seventy.  Mr.  Holiday 
informed  them  that  he  was  eighty,  but  that  they  were 
probably  the  next  oldest  people  on  the  train.  Any 
way,  he  would  find  out  and  let  them  know.  They 
smiled  good-naturedly,  and  the  old  lady  cuddled  a 
little  against  the  old  gentleman,  for  it  was  cold  in  that 
car.  Mr.  Holiday  turned  abruptly. 

"I  forgot  to  ask  you  where  you  are  going?"  he  said. 

They  told  him  that  they  were  going  to  spend  Christ 
mas  with  their  daughter  and  son-in-law  and  the  new 
baby  in  Cleveland.  It  was  a  long  journey.  But  the 
season  made  them  feel  young  and  strong.  Did  Mr. 
Holiday  think  there  was  any  danger  of  being  delayed 
by  the  snow?  It  was  coming  down  very  fast.  They 

183 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

could  not  remember  ever  to  have  been  in  a  sleeping- 
car  when  it  was  snowing  so  hard  outside.  Mr.  Holi 
day  said  that  he  would  ask  the  conductor  about  the 
snow,  and  let  them  know. 

In  the  smoking  compartment  of  the  next  car  for 
ward  sat  a  very  young  man,  all  alone.  He  looked  at 
once  sulky  and  frightened.  He  wasn't  smoking,  but  was 
drumming  on  the  window  sill  with  his  finger  nails. 
He  had  a  gardenia  in  his  button-hole,  and  was  dressed 
evidently  in  his  very  best  suit — a  handsome  dark  gray, 
over  a  malaga-grape-colored  waistcoat.  In  his  neck 
tie  was  a  diamond  horseshoe  pin. 

"Young  man,"  said  Mr.  Holiday,  seating  himself, 
"what  makes  you  look  so  cross?" 

The  young  man  started  to  say,  "None  of  your  busi 
ness,"  but  perceived  in  time  the  eager  face  and  snow- 
white  hair  of  his  questioner,  and  checked  himself. 

"Why,"  he  said  tolerantly,  "do  I  look  as  savage  as 
all  that?" 

"It  isn't  money  troubles,"  said  Mr.  Holiday,  "or 
you  would  have  pawned  that  diamond  pin." 

"Wouldn't  you  be  cross,"  said  the  young  man,  "if 
you  had  to  look  forward  to  sitting  up  all  night  in  a  cold 
smoking  compartment?" 

"Can't  you  get  a  berth?" 

"I  had  a  drawing-room,"  said  the  young  man,  "but 
at  the  last  minute  I  had  to  give  it  up  to  a  lady." 

184 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

Mr.  Holiday's  eyes  twinkled  with  benign  interest. 
He  had  connected  the  gardenia  in  the  young  man's 
coat  with  the  roses  of  the  girl  who  was  weep 
ing. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "drawing-room,  Car  5.  She 
was  crying,  but  I  told  her  to  brace  up,  and  I  guess 
she's  stopped." 

The  young  man  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"Oh!  "he  said. 

Mr.  Holiday  chuckled. 

"I  was  right,"  he  said.  "I've  been  right  seven 
times  out  of  the  ten  for  twenty-five  years.  I've  kept 
a  record." 

Upon  an  impulse  the  young  man  checked  his  head 
long  inclination  to  rush  to  the  girl  who  was  weeping. 

"If  you  are  right  as  often  as  that,"  he  said,  "for 
God's  sake  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Holiday,  "and  it  won't  cost 
you  a  cent.  What's  the  matter?" 

" She"  said  the  young  man  with  an  accent,  for  there 
was  but  the  one,  "came  to  the  station  to  see  me  off. 
She  gave  me  this."  He  touched  the  gardenia  gently. 
"I  gave  her  some  roses.  Just  as  the  train  started  to 
pull  out  I  dared  her  to  come  with  me  .  .  .  she  came!" 

"Tut— tut!"  said  Mr.  Holiday. 

"What  are  we  to  do?"  cried  the  young  man. 

"Go  back  and  sit  with  her,"  said  Mr.  Holiday, 
185 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

"and  leave  the  door  wide  open.  I'm  going  through 
the  train  now  to  see  who's  on  board;  so  don't  worry. 
Leave  it  all  to  me." 

The  last  car  forward  before  you  came  to  the  bag 
gage-car  and  the  express  car  was  a  common  day  coach. 
It  was  draughty.  It  had  been  used  as  a  smoker  in  a 
period  not  so  very  remote.  A  dog  must  have  passed 
an  uncomfortable  night  in  it. 

Near  the  rear  door  sat  a  man  in  a  new  derby  hat 
and  a  new  black  coat.  Further  forward  on  the  same 
side  three  children  had  stuffed  themselves  into  one 
seat.  The  middle  child,  a  well-grown  girl  of  thirteen 
or  fourteen,  seemed  by  her  superior  height  to  shelter 
the  little  tots  at  her  side.  Only  the  blue  imitation 
sailor  caps  of  these  appeared  above  the  top  of  the  seat; 
and  the  top  of  each  cap,  including  that  worn  by  the 
older  girl,  had  a  centrepiece  of  white  about  the  size  of 
a  gentleman's  visiting  card.  Mr.  Holiday  promised 
himself  the  pleasure  of  investigating  these  later.  In 
the  meanwhile  his  interest  was  excited  by  the  ears  of 
the  man  in  the  new  derby.  They  were  not  large,  but 
they  had  an  appearance  of  sticking  out  further  than 
was  necessary;  and  Mr.  Holiday  was  about  to  ask 
their  owner  the  reason  why,  when  he  noticed  for  him 
self  that  it  was  because  the  owner's  hair  had  been  cut 
so  very,  very  short.  Indeed,  he  had  little  gray  eighth- 
inch  bristles  instead  of  hair.  Mr.  Holiday  wondered 

186 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

why.     He  seated  himself  behind  the  man,  and  leaned 
forward.     The  man  stirred  uneasily. 

"I  should  think  you'd  be  afraid  of  catching  cold  in 
this  draughty  car  with  your  hair  cut  so  short,"  said 
Mr.  Holiday. 

"I  am,"  said  the  man  tersely. 

"Why  did  you  let  them  cut  it  so  short  then  ?" 

"Let  them!"  grunted  the  man,  with  ineffable  scorn. 
"Let  them!  You'd  have  let  them!" 

"I  would  not,"  retorted  Mr.  Holiday  crisply.  "My 
wife  cuts  my  hair  for  me,  just  the  way  I  tell  her  to." 

The  man  turned  a  careworn,  unhappy  face. 

"My  wife  used  to  cut  mine,"  he  said.  "But  then 
I — I  got  into  the  habit  of  having  it  done  for  me.  .  .  . 
Ever  been  to  Ohio  Penitentiary,  mister  ?  .  .  .  That's 
the  finest  tonsorial  parlor  in  America — anything  from 
a  shave  to  the  electric  treatment." 

"Ohio  Penitentiary  is  a  jail  for  felons,"  said  Mr. 
Holiday  severely. 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  man,  "as  I  was  telling  you." 

His  voice  had  a  plaintive,  subdued  note  of  defiance 
in  it.  It  was  that  of  a  person  who  is  tired  of  lying 
and  beating  about  the  bush. 

"When  did  you  get  out?"  asked  Mr.  Holiday  simply. 

"Eight  days  ago,"  said  the  man,  "and  when  I  get 
good  and  sick  of  looking  for  jobs  and  getting  turned 
down — I  guess  I'll  go  back." 

187 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

"First  they  make  you  work,"  said  Mr.  Holiday  with 
a  pleased  chuckle,  "and  then  they  won't  let  you  work. 
That's  the  law.  But  you  take  my  advice — you  fool 
'em!" 

"I  never  fooled  anybody,"  said  the  man,  and  he 
ripped  a  holy  name  from  the  depths  of  his  downhearted- 
ness. 

Mr.  Holiday  had  extracted  his  note-book,  and  under 
cover  of  the  seat-back  was  preparing  to  take  notes  and 
make  comments. 

"What  did  you  use  to  do  for  a  living — before?" 
he  asked. 

"I  was  teller  in  a  bank." 

"And  what  happened?" 

"Then,"  said  the  man,  "the  missus  had  twins,  fol 
lowed  by  typhoid  fever."  His  admissions  came  with 
hopeless  frankness.  "And  I  couldn't  pay  for  all  that 
luxury.  So  I  stole." 

"What  bank  were  you  teller  in?" 

"The  Painsville  Bank — Painsville.  I'm  going  to 
them  now  to — to  see  if  they  won't  let  up.  The  wife 
says  that's  the  thing  to  do — go  right  to  the  boil  of 
trouble  and  prick  it." 

"What  did  your  wife  do  while  you  were  away?" 
asked  Mr.  Holiday  delicately. 

"She  did  odd  jobs,  and  brought  the  twins  up 
healthy." 

188 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

"I  remember  the  Painsville  business,"  said  Mr. 
Holiday,  "because  I  own  stock  :n  that  bank.  You 
only  took  about  two  hundred  dollars." 

"That  was  all  I  needed,"  said  the  man.  "It  saved 
the  missus  and  the  kids — so  what's  the  odds?" 

"But  don't  you  intend  to  pay  it  back?" 

"Not  if  the  world  won't  let  me  earn  any  money.  I 
tried  for  jobs  all  to-day,  and  yesterday,  and  the  day 
before.  I  told  my  story  straight.  The  missus  wrote 
that  was  the  thing  to  do.  But  I  guess  she's  wrong 
for  once.  What  would  you  do  if  you  were  a  banker 
and  I  came  to  you  and  said:  'I'm  just  out  of  jail, 
where  I  went  for  stealing;  but  I  mean  to  be  honest. 
Won't  you  give  me  work?' ' 

Mr.  Holiday  wondered  what  he  would  do.  He  was 
beginning  to  like  the  ex-convict's  frankness. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  he  asked. 

"Everybody  knows  you  by  sight,  Mr.  Holiday." 

"Then  you  know,"  said  the  little  old  gentleman, 
"that  I've  sent  plenty  of  people  to  jail  in  my  time — 
plenty  of  them." 

"I've  heard  that  said,"  said  the  man. 

"  But,"  said  Mr.  Holiday  sharply,  "  nobody  ever  tells 
stories  about  the  wrongdoers  I  have  forgiven.  Your 
case  never  came  to  me.  I  believe  I  would  have  shown 
mercy." 

He  closed  his  note-book  and  rose. 
189 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

"Keep  telling  your  story  straight,  my  man,  and  ask 
ing  for  work." 

He  paused,  as  if  waiting  a  reply;  but  the  man  only 
grunted,  and  he  passed  forward  to  the  children.  First 
he  examined  the  visiting-card  effects  on  the  tops  of 
their  hats,  and  noticed  that  these  were  paper  labels 
sewed  down,  and  bearing  the  names  and  destinations 
of  the  little  passengers.  Freddie,  Alice,  and  Euphemia 
Caldwell,  reading  from  left  to  right,  were  consigned  in 
the  care  of  the  conductor  to  Silas  Caldwell,  Painsville, 
Ohio. 

Alice  had  her  arms  around  Freddie  and  Euphemia, 
and  her  pretty  head  was  bent  first  to  one  and  then  to 
the  other.  Mr.  Holiday  seated  himself  gently  behind 
the  trio,  and  listened  for  some  time.  He  learned  that 
"mother"  was  in  the  hospital,  and  "father"  had  to 
be  with  her,  and  that  the  children  were  going  to  "Uncle 
Silas"  until  sent  for.  And  Uncle  Silas  was  a  very 
"grouchy"  man,  and  one  must  mind  one's  P's  and 
Q's,  and  never  be  naughty,  or  Uncle  Silas  would  have 
the  law  of  one.  But  she,  Alice,  would  take  care  of 
them. 

"Going  to  spend  Christmas  with  Uncle,  are  you?" 
piped  Mr.  Holiday  suddenly;  "that's  right!" 

The  little  tots,  very  much  interested  and  startled, 
faced  about,  but  Alice  looked  like  a  little  reproving 
angel. 

190 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

"Oh!"  she  said,  climbing  out  of  the  seat,  "I  must 
speak  with  you  first." 

Mr.  Holiday  was  actually  surprised;  but  he  went 
aside  with  the  child,  where  the  tots  could  not  hear. 

Absolutely  without  consciousness  of  doing  so,  Alice 
patted  and  rearranged  the  old  gentleman's  carnation, 
and  talked  to  him  in  a  gentle,  reproving  tone. 

"Fve  done  everything  I  could,"  she  said,  "to  keep 
the  idea  of  Christmas  away  from  them.  They  didn't 
know  when  it  came  until  you  spoke.  But  now  they 
know,  and  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  ...  our 
uncle,"  she  explained,  "doesn't  celebrate  Christmas; 
he  made  father  understand  that  before  he  agreed  to 
take  us  until  mother  got  well.  So  father  and  I  agreed 
we'd  keep  putting  Christmas  off  until  mother  was  well 
and  we  were  all  together  again.  But  now  they'll  want 
their  Christmas — and  /  can't  give  it  to  them." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Holiday  cheerfully.  "I  have 
put  my  foot  in  it.  And  I  suppose  Freddie  and  Eu- 
phemia  will  carry  on  and  raise  Cain  when  they  find 
there's  no  Santy  Claus  in  Painsville?" 

"Don't  you  fret,  Alice,"  said  Mr.  Holiday.  "When 
I  get  people  in  trouble  I  get  'em  out.  Your  Uncle 
Silas  is  a  friend  of  mine — he  has  to  be.  I'm  going  to 
send  him  a  telegram."  He  smiled,  and  chucked  her 
under  the  chin.  "I'm  not  much  on  Christmas  my 
self,"  he  said,  "but  an  obligation's  an  obligation." 

191 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

He  shook  hands  with  her,  nodded  in  a  friendly  way 
to  the  ex-convict,  and  passed  out  of  the  car  on  his 
return  journey,  consulting  his  note-book  as  he  went. 

First  he  revisited  the  old  couple,  and  told  them  that 
next  to  himself  they  were  in  fact  the  oldest  persons  on 
the  train,  and  that  they  need  not  worry  about  the 
snow  because  he  had  asked  the  conductor  about  it, 
and  the  conductor  had  said  that  it  was  all  right.  Then 
he  started  to  revisit  Miss  Hampton,  but  was  turned 
from  his  purpose  by  a  new  face  in  the  car.  The  new 
face  rose,  thin  and  white,  on  a  long  thin  neck  from  a 
clerical  collar,  and  its  owner  was  busy  with  a  pad  and 
a  pencil. 

"Writing  a  sermon?"  asked  Mr.  Holiday. 

The  clergyman  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said.  "I'm  doing  a  sum  in  addition, 
and  making  heavy  work  of  it." 

"I'll  do  it  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Holiday  eagerly.  He 
was  a  lightning  adder,  and  not  in  the  least  averse  to 
showing  off.  The  clergyman,  still  smiling,  yielded  up 
the  pad. 

"I'm  trying  to  make  it  come  to  two  thousand  dol 
lars,"  he  said,  "and  I  can't." 

"That's  because,"  said  Mr.  Holiday,  returning  the 
pad  after  one  swift  glance  up  and  down  the  columns, 
"it  only  comes  to  thirteen  hundred  and  twenty-five 
dollars.  You  had  the  answer  correct." 

192 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

"It's  for  repairs  to  the  church,"  said  the  clergy 
man  dismally.  "The  contractor  calls  for  two  thou 
sand;  and  I'm  just  about  ready  to  give  up." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Holiday,  "I'm  going  to  get  my 
dinner  now,  and  maybe  later  I  can  give  you  some  idea 
how  to  raise  the  balance.  I've  raised  a  good  deal  of 
money  in  my  time."  He  chuckled. 

"I  know  that,  Mr.  Holiday,"  said  the  clergyman, 
"and  I  should  be  glad  of  any— suggestion  that  you 
might  care  to  make." 

Mr.  Holiday  seated  himself  facing  Miss  Hampton. 
She  smiled,  and  nodded,  and  laid  aside  the  book  she 
had  been  reading.  Mr.  Holiday's  eyes  twinkled. 

"  I'm  going  to  turn  you  out  of  this  section,"  he  said. 

"Why?"    She  smiled. 

"Because  there's  a  young  friend  of  mine  wants  it," 
he  said. 

"  Now,  really  ! "  said  Miss  Hampton,  still  smiling. 

"You're  going  to  carry  your  duds  to  the  drawing- 
room,  Car  5,"  he  said.  Then,  the  twinkle  in  his  eyes 
becoming  exceedingly  gossipy  and  sportive,  he  told 
her  about  the  young  people  who  had  eloped  without 
exactly  meaning  to.  Miss  Hampton  was  delighted. 

She  and  Mr.  Holiday  hurried  to  the  drawing-room 
in  Car  5,  of  which  the  door  had  been  left  wide  open, 
according  to  Mr.  Holiday's  orders.  The  young  peo 
ple  looked  very  happy  and  unhappy  all  at  once,  and  as 

193 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

soon  as  Mr.  Holiday  had  begun  to  state  their  situation 
to  them  without  mincing,  they  assumed  a  tremendous 
pair  of  blushes,  which  they  were  not  able  to  efface  for 
a  long  time. 

"And  now,"  he  finished,  glaring  at  the  uncomfort 
able  young  man,  "you  bring  your  duds  and  put  them 
in  Miss  Hampton's  section.  And  then  you  gather  up 
Miss  Hampton's  duds  and  bring  'em  in  here."  And 
he  turned  and  shook  his  finger  at  the  girl.  "Mind 
you,"  he  said,  "don't  you  ever  run  away  again  without 
a  chaperon.  They  don't  grow  on  every  bush." 

Somehow,  Mr.  Holiday  had  overlooked  the  other 
drawing-room  (B)  in  Car  5.  Now  he  came  suddenly 
upon  it,  and  peered  in,  for  the  door  was  ajar.  But 
he  drew  back  with  a  sharp  jerk  as  if  he  had  seen 
a  rattlesnake.  All  the  kindness  went  out  of  the  old 
gentleman's  face,  and  between  anger  and  hatred  he 
turned  white. 

"  Jolyff!"  he  muttered.  And,  all  the  elasticity  gone 
from  his  gait,  he  stumbled  back  to  his  own  car,  revolv 
ing  and  muttering  unchristian  thoughts.  For  he  and 
Jolyff  had  been  meeting  all  their  lives,  it  seemed,  in 
court  and  out;  sometimes  with  the  right  on  one  side, 
sometimes  on  the  other.  Each  had  cost  the  other  a 
thousand  wicked  threats  and  a  mint  of  money. 

Mr.  Holiday's  wanderings  through  the  train  had 
aroused  all  the  kindlier  feelings  in  his  nature.  He  was 

194 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

going  home  to  his  wife  and  family:  expensive  and 
foolish  as  it  seemed,  he  had  the  trunk  full  of  toys  for 
the  grandchildren  and  the  great-grandchildren,  and  he 
was  glad  of  it.  He  had  put  things  right  for  two  pre 
possessing  young  people  who  had  made  a  wrong  start; 
he  had  been  gallant  to  an  actress;  he  had  determined 
to  help  the  clergyman  out  with  his  repair  fund;  to 
find  work  for  a  convict,  and  to  see  to  it  that  three 
children  should  have  a  pleasant  visit  with  an  uncle 
who  was  really  crotchety,  disagreeable,  and  mean. 

But  now  he  did  not  care  about  pleasant  things  any 
more.  He  could  think  of  nothing  but  Jolyff;  of  noth 
ing  but  old  sores  that  rankled;  of  great  deals  that  had 
gone  wrong,  through  his  enemy.  And  in  that  spirit 
he  picked  at  his  Christmas  Eve  dinner,  and  went  to 
bed. 

It  seemed  to  Mr.  Holiday  every  time  he  woke,  which 
was  often,  that  the  train  had  just  started  to  move, 
after  standing  still  for  a  long  time,  and  that  the  porter 
had  never  before  allowed  his  car  to  grow  so  cold.  He 
turned  the  current  into  the  reading  light  at  the  head  of 
his  bed  and  consulted  his  watch. 

Two  o'clock.  He  got  to  wondering  at  exactly  what 
hour  all  those  hundreds  of  years  ago  Christ  had  been 
born.  Had  it  been  as  cold  as  this  in  the  old  barn? 
Whew! 

No,  Bethlehem  was  in  the  semi-tropics  or  there- 
195 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

about,  but  the  common  car  in  which  the  three  children 
were  passing  the  night  was  not.  This  thought  came 
to  Mr.  Holiday  without  invitation,  and,  like  all  unwel 
come  guests,  made  a  long  stay.  So  persistent,  indeed, 
was  the  thought,  meeting  his  mind  at  every  turn  and 
dogging  its  footsteps,  that  he  forgot  all  about  Jolyff 
and  all  about  everything  else.  Finally  he  rang  for  the 
porter,  but  had  no  answer.  He  rang  again  and  again. 
Then  the  train  jolted  slowly  to  a  standstill,  and  Mr. 
Holiday  got  up  and  dressed,  and  went  forward  once 
more  through  the  narrow  aisles  of  thick  curtains  to 
the  common  car.  But  the  passengers  in  that  car  had 
amalgamated.  Alice  and  the  convict,  blue  with  cold, 
were  in  the  same  seat,  and  Alice  was  hugging  Freddie, 
who  slept  fitfully,  to  her  breast,  and  the  convict  was 
hugging  Euphemia,  who  cried  gently  and  softly  like  a 
cold  and  hungry  kitten,  to  his.  The  convict  had  taken 
off  his  overcoat  and  wrapped  it  as  well  as  he  could 
about  all  the  children. 

Mr.  Holiday  tapped  the  convict  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Merry  Christmas ! "  he  said  cynically. 

The  convict  started  and  turned. 

"  Bring  these  babies  back  to  my  car,"  said  Mr.  Holi 
day,  "and  help  me  put  'em  to  bed." 

"That's  a  good  deed,  Mr.  Holiday,"  said  the  con 
vict.  He  started  to  put  on  his  overcoat.  The  un 
dressing  and  putting  to  bed  had  not  waked  Freddie. 

196 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

Euphemia  had  stopped  crying.  And  Alice,  when  the 
two  men  had  helped  her  with  her  dress,  which  but 
toned  down  the  back,  had  suddenly  flung  her  arms 
first  around  one  and  then  around  the  other,  and  given 
each  a  kiss  good  night. 

The  convict  buttoned  his  coat  and  turned  up  his  collar. 

"Good-night,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  thank  you." 

Mr.  Holiday  waved  the  thanks  aside  and  pointed  to 
a  door  of  shining  mahogany. 

"There's  a  bed  for  you,  too,"  he  said  gently. 

The  convict  hesitated. 

Then — it  may  have  been  owing  to  the  sudden  start 
ing  of  the  train — he  lurched  against  the  door,  and 
with  a  sound  that  was  mighty  like  a  sob  thrust  it  open 
and  slammed  it  shut  behind  him. 

Mr.  Holiday  smiled  and  went  back  to  his  own  bed. 
This  time  he  slept  soundly. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  porter  called  him,  according  to 
orders.  The  train  was  standing  still. 

"Merry  Christmas,  Mistah  Holiday,  sah!"  grinned 
the  porter.  "Seven  o'clock,  sah!" 

"Merry  Christmas,"  said  Mr.  Holiday.  "Why  are 
we  stopping?" 

"We's  snowed  in,"  grinned  the  porter. 

"Snowed  in!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Holiday.     "Where?" 

"Tween  Albany  and  Buffalo,  sah.  Dey  ain't  any 
name  to  de  place.  Dey  ain't  any  place." 

197 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

"There  are  three  children,"  said  Mr.  Holiday,  "in 
the  stateroom  next  to  this  and  a  gentleman  in  the  other 
stateroom.  You  call  'em  in  about  an  hour  and  ask 
'em  what  they'll  take  for  breakfast.  Bring  me  some 
coffee,  and  ask  the  conductor  how  late  we're  going 
to  be." 

With  his  coffee  Mr.  Holiday  learned  that  the  train 
might  be  twenty-four  hours  late  in  getting  to  Cleveland. 
The  conductor  supposed  that  ploughs  were  at  work 
along  the  track;  but  the  blizzard  was  still  raging. 

That  he  would  be  separated  from  his  wife  on  Christ 
mas  Day  for  the  first  time  in  their  married  life  did  not 
amuse  Mr,  Holiday;  and  although  too  much  of  the 
grandchildren  and  great-grandchildren  bored  him  to 
extinction,  still  he  felt  that  any  festive  day  on  which 
they  were  not  all  with  him  was  a  festive  day  gone  very 
wrong  indeed.  But  it  was  not  as  a  sop  to  his  own  feel 
ings  of  disappointment  that  he  decided  to  celebrate 
Christmas  in  the  train.  It  was  a  mixture  of  good 
nature  and,  I  am  afraid,  of  malice.  He  said  to  him 
self: 

"I  shall  invite  all  the  passengers  to  one-o'clock  din 
ner  and  a  Christmas  tree  afterward  with  games  and 
punch.  I  shall  invite  the  conductor  and  the  brake- 
man;  the  porters  shall  come  to  serve  dinner.  I  shall 
invite  the  engineer  and  the  fireman  and  the  express 
man.  I  shall  invite  everybody  except  Jolyff." 

198 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

The  old  gentleman  sucked  in  his  lips  tightly  and 
dwelt  upon  this  thought  with  satisfaction.  Jolyff  loved 
a  party;  Jolyff  loved  to  drink  healths,  and  clap  people 
on  the  back,  and  make  little  speeches,  and  exert  him 
self  generally  to  amuse  less  gifted  persons  and  make 
them  feel  at  home.  And  it  was  pleasant  to  think  of 
him  as  sitting  alone  while  a  fine  celebration  was  bang 
ing  and  roaring  in  the  very  next  car — a  celebration  to 
which  even  an  ex-convict  had  been  invited. 

First,  Mr.  Holiday  summoned  Miss  Hampton  and 
the  girl  who  had  run  away  to  be  his  aides-de-camp. 
They  decided  that  the  party  was  really  for  the  benefit 
of  Freddie,  Alice,  and  Euphemia,  so  these  were  packed 
off  at  once  to  the  common  car  to  be  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  scene  of  preparations.  Then,  with  Mr.  Holi 
day's  porter,  and  his  cook,  and  the  ex-convict  as  men 
of  all  work,  commenced  the  task  of  ordering  the  car 
for  a  crowd  and  decorating  it,  and  improvising  a 
Christmas  tree.  Miss  Hampton  set  to  work  with  a 
wooden  bucket,  sugar,  rum,  brandy,  eggs,  milk,  and 
heaven  knows  what  not,  to  brew  a  punch.  Every  now 
and  then  Mr.  Holiday  appeared,  to  see  how  she  was 
getting  on,  and  to  taste  the  concoction,  and  to  pay  her 
pretty,  old-fashioned  compliments.  The  girl  who  had 
run  away  was  helping  the  porter  to  lay  the  table  and 
trying  to  write  invitations  to  the  passengers  at  the 
same  time,  Mr.  Holiday  having  furnished  her  from  his 

199 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

note-book  with  all  of  their  names.  Now  and  then 
there  were  hurried  consultations  as  to  what  would  be 
a  suitable  gift  for  a  given  person.  The  "next  oldest" 
people  in  the  train  were  to  receive  a  pair  of  the  silver 
candlesticks  from  the  table.  The  train  hands  were  to 
receive  money,  and  suddenly  Mr.  Holiday  discovered 
that  he  had  only  a  few  dollars  in  cash  with  him.  He 
sought  out  the  clergyman. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  he  said. 

"Merry  Christmas!"  said  the  clergyman. 

"Have  you,"  said  Mr.  Holiday,  "any  of  your  re 
building  fund  with  you?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  clergyman,  smiling,  "some 
two  hundred  dollars,  and  I  cannot  deny  that  it  is 
agony  to  me  to  carry  about  so  large  a  sum." 

Mr.  Holiday  simply  held  out  his  hand,  palm  up. 

"Why— what— "  began  the  clergyman  in  embar 
rassment. 

"I  will  give  you  my  check  for  that  sum,"  said  Mr. 
Holiday,  "and  something  over  for  your  fund.  I  hope 
you  will  dine  with  me,  in  my  car,  at  one  o'clock." 

He  hurried  away  with  the  two  hundred  dollars.  It 
was  his  intention  to  sample  Miss  Hampton's  punch 
again;  but  he  turned  from  this  on  a  sudden  impulse 
and  sought  out  the  young  man  who  had  been  run  away 
with.  With  this  attractive  person  he  talked  very  ear 
nestly  for  half  an  hour,  and  asked  him  an  infinite  num- 

200 


MR.   HOLIDAY 

ber  of  questions;  just  the  kind  of  questions  that  he  had 
asked  the  young  men  who  had  aspired  to  the  hands  of 
his  own  daughters.  And  these  must  have  been  satis 
factorily  answered,  because  at  the  end  of  the  interview 
Mr.  Holiday  patted  the  young  man  on  the  back  and 
said  that  he  would  see  him  later. 

Next  he  came  face  to  face  with  Mr.  Jolyff,  and  the  two 
old  gentlemen  stared  at  each  other  coldly,  but  without 
any  sign  of  recognition.  Once — ever  so  many  years 
ago — they  had  been  intimate  friends.  Mr.  Holiday 
had  never  had  any  other  friend  of  whom  he  had  been 
so  fond.  He  tried  now  to  recall  what  their  first  differ 
ence  had  been,  and  because  he  could  not  he  thought  he 
must  be  growing  infirm.  And  he  began  to  think  of 
his  approaching  party  with  less  pleasure.  He  had  let 
himself  in  for  a  good  deal  of  bother,  he  thought. 

But  this  time  Miss  Hampton  made  him  take  a  whole 
teaspoonful  of  punch,  and  told  him  what  a  dear  he 
was,  and  what  a  good  time  everybody  was  going  to 
have,  and  that  she  would  do  anything  in  the  world  for 
him;  she  would  even  recite  "The  Night  Before  Christ 
mas  "  for  his  company,  if  he  asked  her.  And  then  they 
did  a  great  deal  of  whispering,  and  finally  Mr.  Holi 
day  said: 

"But  suppose  they  balk?" 

"Nonsense,"  said  Miss  Hampton;  "would  you  and 
I  balk  if  we  were  in  their  places  ? " 

201 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

The  pretty  actress  and  the  old  gentleman  laughed 
and  bowed  to  each  other,  and  exchanged  the  most  arch 
looks  imaginable.  And  then  Miss  Hampton  exclaimed : 

"  Good  Lord— it's  twelve-thirty." 

Then  there  came  to  them  a  sudden  dreadful  smell 
of  burning  feathers.  They  dashed  into  the  observa 
tion  end  of  the  car  and  found  the  ex-convict  smother 
ing  an  incipient  conflagration  of  the  Christmas  tree, 
which  was  made  of  dusters,  with  his  hands. 

The  girl  who  had  run  away  was  despatching  the  por 
ter  with  the  last  batch  of  invitations.  The  ex-convict 
showed  them  his  burned  hands. 

"You  go  and  feel  the  champagne,"  said  Mr.  Holi 
day,  "that'll  cool 'em." 

Mr.  Holiday  himself  went  to  fetch  the  children.  In 
his  pockets  were  the  envelopes  containing  money  for 
the  train  hands,  the  envelope  containing  a  check  for  the 
two  hundred  dollars  that  he  had  borrowed  from  the 
clergyman,  and  enough  over  to  complete  the  rebuilding 
fund  which  the  clergyman  had  tried  so  hard  to  collect. 
And  there  was  an  envelope  for  the  ex-convict — not  with 
money  in  it,  but  with  an  I.  O.  U. 

"/.  0.  U.  A  Good  Job,"  Mr.  Holiday  had  written  on 
a  card  and  signed  his  name.  And  he  had  taken  out  of 
his  satchel  and  transferred  to  his  waistcoat  pocket  a 
pair  of  wonderful  black  pearls  that  he  sometimes  wore 
at  important  dinners.  And  he  was  going  to  give  one 

202 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

of  these  to  Miss  Hampton  and  one  to  the  girl  who  had 
run  away.  And  then  there  were  all  the  wonderful  toys 
and  things  for  Alice,  and  Freddie,  and  Euphemia,  and 
he  was  going  to  present  them  with  the  black  trunk,  too, 
so  that  they  could  take  their  gifts  off  the  train  when  it 
eventually  got  to  Painsville.  And  Mr.  Holiday  had 
thought  of  everybody,  and  had  prepared  a  little  speech 
to  speak  to  his  guests;  and  for  two  of  his  guests  he  had 
arranged  one  of  the  greatest  surprises  that  can  be 
sprung  on  two  guests;  and  he  ought  to  have  been  per 
fectly  happy.  But  he  wasn't. 

When  he  passed  the  door  of  Mr.  JolyfFs  drawing- 
room  he  noted  that  it  was  tightly  closed.  And  it  ought 
to  have  pleased  him  to  see  how  his  enemy  had  taken 
his  exclusion  from  the  party  to  heart,  and  had  shut 
himself  away  from  any  sign  or  sound  of  it.  But,  al 
though  he  smiled  cynically,  he  wasn't  altogether 
pleased.  And  presently  he  made  a  wry  mouth,  as  if 
he  were  taking  something  unpleasant;  and  he  began 
to  hustle  Freddie  and  Euphemia  so  as  to  get  away  from 
that  closed  door  as  quickly  as  possible. 

The  girl  who  had  run  away  was  talking  with  Mr. 
Holiday  when  suddenly  she  began  to  grow  conscious 
and  uncomfortable.  She  gave  one  swift  look  about 
her,  and  saw  that  all  the  passengers,  and  all  the  train 
hands,  and  porters,  and  the  express-man  were  looking 
at  her  and  smiling,  and  she  saw  that  they  had  ranged 

203 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

themselves  against  the  sides  of  the  car  and  were  mak 
ing  themselves  as  small  as  possible.  Then  she  saw 
the  young  man  looking  at  her  with  a  wonderful,  ner 
vous,  radiant  look.  And  then  she  saw  that  the  clergy 
man  was  standing  all  by  himself,  in  a  space  that  the 
crowd  had  just  managed  to  leave  open  for  him,  and 
that  he  had  on  his  surplice,  and  that  he  was  marking  a 
place  in  his  prayer-book  with  one  finger.  Then  she 
understood. 

Instinctively  she  caught  Mr.  Holiday's  arm  and 
clung  to  it,  and  Mr.  Holiday,  smiling,  patted  her  hand 
and  began  to  draw  her  gently  toward  the  young  man 
and  the  clergyman.  It  looked  for  a  moment  as  if  she 
were  going  to  hang  back,  and  protest,  and  make  a 
scene.  But  just  when  everybody  was  beginning  to 
fear  the  worst,  and  to  look  frightfully  nervous  and  un 
comfortable,  a  wonderful  and  beautiful  expression 
came  into  her  face,  and  her  eyes  lighted,  and  seemed  to 
grow  larger  and  darker  all  at  the  same  time.  And  if 
there  were  any  present  who  had  regarded  the  im 
promptu  wedding  as  something  of  a  joke,  these  now 
had  their  minds  changed  for  them  in  the  quickest  kind 
of  a  jiffy.  And  if  there  were  any  present  who  doubted 
of  the  beauty  and  dignity  of  love,  these  had  their  minds 
changed  for  them,  too.  And  they  knew  that  they 
were  witnesses,  not  to  a  silly  elopement,  but  to  the 
great  occasion  in  the  lives  of  two  very  young  people 

204 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

who  were  absolutely  sure  of  their  love  for  each  other, 
and  who  would  cherish  each  other  in  sickness  and 
peril,  in  good  times  and  bad,  in  merry  times  and  in 
heart-breaking  times,  until  death  did  them  part. 

And  then  suddenly,  just  when  the  clergyman  was 
about  to  begin,  just  when  Miss  Hampton  had  suc 
ceeded  in  righting  herself  from  smothering  a  sob,  Mr. 
Holiday,  whose  face,  had  you  but  noticed  it,  had  been 
growing  longer  and  longer,  and  drearier  and  drearier, 
gave  a  half-strangled  cry: 

"Wait!" 

Wholly  oblivious  to  everything  and  everybody  but 
what  was  in  his  mind  at  the  moment,  he  dropped  the 
bride's  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  red-hot  horseshoe  and 
started  to  bolt  from  the  car.  But,  strangely  enough,  the 
old  face  that  had  grown  so  long  and  dreary  was  now 
wreathed  in  smiles,  and  he  was  heard  to  mutter  as  he 
went: 

"Just  a  minute,  while  I  get  Jolyff!" 

Mr.  Jolyff  and  Mr.  Holiday  lifted  their  glasses.  And 
Mr.  Holiday  said,  so  that  all  could  hear: 

"I  drink  to  my  old  friends  and  to  my  new  friends. 
And  I  drink  to  the  lesson  of  Christmas.  For  Christ 
mas,"  said  he,  and  he  smiled  in  a  wonderful  way, 
"teaches  us  that  in  all  the  world  there  is  absolutely 
nothing  that  we  cannot  forgive.  ..." 

205 


MR.  HOLIDAY 

The  two  very  old  gentlemen  clinked  their  glasses 
together,  and,  looking  each  other  affectionately  in  the 
eyes,  might  have  been  heard  to  mutter,  somewhat 
brokenly,  each  the  other's  Christian  name. 


206 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

My  wife,  said  the  Pole,  was  a  long  time  recovering 
from  the  birth  of  our  second  child.  She  was  a  normal 
and  healthy  woman,  but  Nature  has  a  way  in  these 
matters  of  introducing  the  unnatural;  science,  too, 
mistook  the  ABCs  of  the  case  for  the  XYZs;  and  our 
rooms  were  for  many,  many  weary  weeks  like  a  cage 
in  which  the  bird  has  ceased  to  sing.  I  did  what  I 
could.  She  was  not  without  books,  magazines,  and 
delicacies;  but  I  had  to  attend  to  my  business;  so 
that  time  hung  about  her  much  like  a  millstone,  and 
she  would  say:  "All's  well  with  me,  Michael,  but  I 
am  bored — bored — bored." 

Our  baby  was  put  out  to  nurse  and  our  older  boy, 
Casimir,  who  was  seven,  began,  for  lack  of  his  mother's 
care,  to  come  and  go  as  he  pleased.  The  assurance 
and  cheek  of  street  boys  began  to  develop  in  him.  He 
startled  me  by  his  knowledge  and  his  naivete'.  But 
at  the  same  time  he  was  a  natural  innocent — a  little 
dreamer.  In  the  matters  of  street  life  that  arise 
among  children  he  had,  as  a  rule,  the  worst  of  it.  He 
was  a  born  believer  of  all  that  might  be  told  him. 

209 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

Such  children  develop  into  artists  or  ne'er-do-wells. 
It  was  too  soon  to  worry  about  him.  But  I  was 
easiest  in  mind  when  I  saw  that  he  was  fashioning 
anatomies  with  mud  or  drawing  with  chalk  upon  the 
sidewalk.  "Wait  a  little,"  I  would  say  to  my  wife, 
"and  he  will  be  old  enough  to  go  to  school." 

The  happiest  times  were  when  it  was  dark  and  I  had 
closed  the  store  and  could  sit  by  my  wife's  bed  with 
Casimir  on  my  knee.  Then  we  would  talk  over  pleas 
ant  experiences,  or  I  would  tell  them,  who  were  both 
American-born,  stories  of  Poland,  of  fairies,  and  sieges ; 
or  hum  for  them  the  tunes  to  which  I  had  danced  in 
my  early  youth.  But  oftenest  my  wife  and  I  talked, 
for  the  child's  benefit,  of  the  wonderful  city  in  whose 
slums  we  lived — upper  central  New  York  with  its  sa 
bles  and  its  palaces.  During  our  courtship  and  honey 
moon  we  had  made  many  excursions  into  those  quar 
ters  of  the  city  and  the  memory  of  them  was  dear. 
But  if  I  remembered  well  and  with  happiness,  my  wife 
remembered  photographically  and  with  a  kind  of  hec 
tic  eagerness  in  which,  I  fear,  may  have  been  bedded 
the  roots  of  dissatisfaction.  Details  of  wealth  and 
luxury,  and  manners  that  had  escaped  me,  even  at  the 
time,  were  as  facile  to  her  as  terms  of  endearment  to  a 
lover.  "And,  oh — do  you  remember,"  she  would  say, 
"the  ruby  that  the  Fifth  Avenue  bride  had  at  her 
throat,  and  how  for  many,  many  blocks  we  thought  we 

210 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

could  still  hear  the  organ  going?  That  was  fun, 
Michael,  wasn't  it,  when  we  stood  in  front  of  Sherry's 
and  counted  how  many  real  sables  went  in  and  how 
many  fakes,  and  noticed  that  the  fake  sables  were  as 
proudly  carried  as  the  real?" 

One  night  she  would  not  eat  her  supper.  "Oh, 
Michael,"  she  said,  "I'm  so  bored  with  the  same  old 
soup — soup — soup,  and  the  same  old  porridge — por 
ridge — porridge,  and  I  hate  oranges,  and  apples,  and 
please  don't  spend  any  more  money  on  silly,  silly,  silly 
me." 

"But  you  must  eat,"  I  said.  "What  would  you 
like  ?  Think  of  something.  Think  of  something  that 
tempts  your  appetite.  You  seem  better  to-night — al 
most  well.  Your  cheeks  are  like  cherries  and  you 
keep  stirring  restlessly  as  if  you  wanted  to  get  up  in 
stead  of  lying  still — still  like  a  woman  that  has  been 
drowned,  all  but  her  great,  dear  eyes.  .  .  .  Now, 
make  some  decision,  and  were  it  ambrosia  I  will  get 
it  for  you  if  it  is  to  be  had  in  the  city.  .  .  .  Else  what 
are  savings-banks  for,  and  thrift,  and  a  knowledge  of 
furs?" 

She  answered  me  indirectly. 

"Do  you  remember,  Michael,"  she  said,  "the 
butcher  shops  uptown,  the  groceries,  and  the  fruit 
stores,  where  the  commonest  articles,  the  chops,  the 
preserved  strawberries,  the  apples  were  perfect  and 

211 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

beautiful,  like  works  of  art?  In  one  window  there 
was  a  great  olive  branch  in  a  glass  jar — do  you  re 
member?  And  in  that  fruit  store  near  the  Grand 
Central — do  you  remember? — we  stood  in  the  damp 
snow  and  looked  in  at  great  clean  spaces  flooded  with 
white  light — and  there  were  baskets  of  strawberries — 
right  there  in  January — and  wonderful  golden  and 
red  fruits  that  we  did  not  know  the  names  of,  and 
many  of  the  fruits  peeped  out  from  the  bright-green 
leaves  among  which  they  had  actually  grown " 

"I  remember  the  two  prize  bunches  of  grapes,"  I 
said. 

And  my  wife  said : 

"  I  was  coming  to  those  .  .  .  they  must  have  been 
eighteen  inches  long,  every  grape  great  and  perfect.  I 
remember  you  said  that  such  grapes  looked  immortal. 
It  was  impossible  to  believe  they  could  ever  rot — there 
was  a  kind  of  joyous  frostiness — we  went  in  and  asked 
a  little  man  what  kind  of  grapes  they  were,  and  he 
answered  like  a  phonograph,  without  looking  or  show 
ing  politeness:  ' Black  Hamburgs  and  White  Muscats 
of  Alexandria* — your  old  Sienkiewicz  never  said  any 
thing  as  beautiful  as  that,  *  White  Muscats  of  Alex 
andria '  " 

"Dear  little  heart,"  I  said.  "Childkin,  is  it  the 
memory  of  those  white  grapes  that  tempts  your  appe 
tite?" 

212 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

"Oh,  Michael,"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands 
over  those  disappointed  breasts  into  which  the  milk 
had  not  come  in  sufficiency.  "Oh,  Michael — they 
were  two  dollars  and  a  half  a  pound " 

"Heart  of  my  heart,"  I  said,  "Stag  Eyes,  it  is  now 
late,  and  there  are  no  such  grapes  to  be  had  in  our 
part  of  the  city — only  the  tasteless  white  grapes  that 
are  packed  with  sawdust  into  barrels — but  in  the  morn 
ing  I  will  go  uptown  and  you  shall  have  your  White 
Muscats  of  Alexandria." 

She  put  her  arms  about  my  neck  with  a  sudden 
spasm  of  fervor,  and  drew  my  head,  that  was  already 
gray,  down  to  hers.  I  remember  that  in  that  moment 
I  thought  not  of  passion  but  of  old  age,  parting,  and 
the  grave. 

But  she  would  not  eat  the  grapes  in  my  presence. 
There  was  to  be  an  orgy,  she  said,  a  bacchanalian 
affair — she  was  going  to  place  the  grapes  where  she 
could  look  at  them,  and  look  at  them  until  she  could 
stand  the  sight  no  more,  when  she  would  fall  on  them 
like  a  wolf  on  the  fold  and  devour  them.  She  talked 
morbidly  of  the  grapes — almost  neurotically.  But, 
though  her  fancies  did  not  please  my  sense  of  fitness, 
I  only  laughed  at  her,  or  smiled — for  she  had  been  ill 
a  long  time. 

213 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

"But,  at  least,  eat  one  now,"  I  said,  "so  that  I  may 
see  you  enjoy  it." 

" Not  even  one,"  she  said.  "The  bunch  must  be  per 
fect  for  me  to  look  at  until — until  I  can  resist  no  more. 
Hang  them  there,  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  by  the  crook  of 
the  stem — is  it  strong  enough  to  hold  them  ?  and  then 
— aren't  you  going  to  be  very  late  to  your  business? 
And,  Michael,  I  feel  better — I  do.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  you  found  me  up  and  dressed  when  you  come  back." 

In  your  telling  American  phrase,  "  there  was  nothing 
doing"  in  my  business  that  morning.  It  was  one  of 
those  peaceful,  sunny  days  in  January,  not  cold  and 
no  wind  stirring.  The  cheap  furs  displayed  in  the 
window  of  my  shop  attracted  no  attention  from  the 
young  women  of  the  neighborhood.  The  young  are 
shallow-minded,  especially  the  women.  If  a  warm  day 
falls  in  winter  they  do  not  stop  to  think  that  the  next 
may  be  cold.  Only  hats  interest  them  all  the  year 
round,  and  men. 

So  I  got  out  one  of  my  Cicero  books  and,  placing  my 
chair  in  a  pool  of  sunshine  in  the  front  of  the  shop,  I 
began  to  read,  for  the  hundredth  time,  his  comfortable 
generalities  upon  old  age.  But  it  seemed  to  me,  for 
the  first  time,  that  he  was  all  wrong — that  old  age  is 
only  dreadful,  only  a  shade  better  than  death  itself. 
And  this,  I  suppose,  was  because  I,  myself,  during 

214 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

those  long  months  of  my  wife's  illness,  had  turned  the 
corner.  The  sudden  passions  of  youth  had  retreated 
like  dragons  into  their  dens.  It  took  more,  now,  than 
the  worse  end  of  a  bargain  or  the  touch  of  my  wife's 
lips  to  bring  them  flaming  forth.  On  our  wedding  day 
we  had  been  of  an  age.  Now,  after  nine  years,  my 
heart  had  changed  from  a  lover's  into  a  father's,  while 
she  remained,  as  it  were,  a  bride.  There  remained  to 
me,  perhaps,  many  useful  years  of  business,  of  manag 
ing  and  of  saving — enjoyable  years.  But  life — life  as 
I  count  life — I  had  lived  out.  One  moment  must 
pass  as  the  next.  There  could  be  no  more  halting — 
no  more  moments  of  bliss  so  exquisite  as  to  resemble 
pain.  I  had  reached  that  point  in  life  when  it  is  the 
sun  alone  that  matters,  and  no  more  the  moon. 

A  shadow  fell  upon  my  pool  of  sunshine  and,  look 
ing  up,  I  perceived  a  handsome,  flashy  young  man  of 
the  clever,  almost  Satanic  type  that  is  so  common 
below  Fourteenth  Street;  and  he  stood  looking  cyni 
cally  over  the  cheap  furs  in  my  window  and  working 
his  thin  jaws.  Then  I  saw  him  take,  with  his  right 
hand,  from  a  bunch  that  he  carried  in  his  left,  a  great 
white  grape  and  thrust  it  into  his  mouth.  They  were 
my  grapes,  those  which  I  had  gone  uptown  to  fetch 
for  my  wife.  By  the  fact  that  there  were  none  such  to 
be  had  in  our  neighborhood  I  might  have  known  them. 
But  the  sure  proof  was  a  peculiar  crook  in  the  stem 

215 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

which  I  had  noticed  when  I  had  hung  them  for  my 
wife  at  the  foot  of  her  bed. 

I  rose  and  went  quietly  out  of  the  shop. 

"Happy  to  show  you  anything,"  I  said,  smiling. 

"Don't  need  anything  in  the  fur  line  to-day,"  said 
he;  "much  obliged." 

"What  fine  grapes  those  are,"  I  commented. 

"Um,"  said  he,  "they  call  'em  white  muskets  of 
Alexander";  and  he  grimaced. 

"Where  are  such  to  be  had?"  I  asked. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  got  these  just  round  the  corner; 
but  you'd  have  to  visit  some  uptown  fruit  emporium 
and  pay  the  price." 

"So  you  bought  the  last  bunch?" 

"  Bought  nothin',"  he  said,  and  he  smiled  in  a  know 
ing  and  leering  way. 

"They  were  given  to  me,"  he  said,  "by  a  married 
woman.  I  happened  to  drop  in  and  she  happened  to 
have  sent  her  husband  uptown  to  fetch  these  grapes 
for  her  because  she's  playing  sick  and  works  him  in 
more  ways  than  one — but  she  said  the  grapes  sickened 
her  conscience,  and  she  made  me  take  'em  away." 

"So  she  has  a  conscience?"  I  said. 

"They  all  have,"  said  the  young  man.     "Have  one?" 

I  took  one  of  the  grapes  with  a  hand  that  shook, 
and  ate  it,  and  felt  the  red  blood  in  my  veins  turn  into 
acid. 

216 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

There  happened  to  be  a  man  in  the  neighborhood 
who  had  been  nibbling  after  my  business  for  some 
time.  I  went  to  him  now  and  made  him  a  cheap  sale 
for  cash.  This  I  deposited  with  my  savings,  keeping 
out  a  hundred  dollars  for  myself,  and  put  the  whole 
in  trust  for  my  wife  and  children.  Then  I  went  away 
and,  after  many  hardships,  established  myself  in  a 
new  place.  And,  as  is  often  the  case  with  men  who 
have  nothing  whatsoever  to  live  for  and  who  are  sad, 
I  prospered.  God  was  ever  presenting  me  with  op 
portunities  and  the  better  ends  of  bargains. 

When  fifteen  years  had  passed  I  returned  once  more 
to  New  York.  I  had  reached  a  time  of  life  when  the 
possibility  of  death  must  be  as  steadily  reckoned  with 
as  the  processes  of  digestion.  And  I  wished,  before 
I  lay  down  in  the  narrow  house,  to  revisit  the  scenes 
of  my  former  happiness.  I  took  the  same  furnished 
lodging  to  which  we  had  gone  after  our  wedding.  I 
lay  all  night,  but  did  not  sleep,  in  our  nuptial  bed. 
Alone,  but  rather  in  reverence  and  revery  than  sadness, 
I  made  all  those  little  excursions  upon  which  we  had 
been  so  happy  during  the  days  of  our  honey-moon.  I 
made  a  point  of  feeding  the  animals  in  the  park,  of 
dining  at  Claremont — I  even  stood  for  a  long  time  be 
fore  the  fruit  shop  that  is  near  the  Grand  Central. 
But  I  was  too  old  to  feel  much.  So  it  seemed. 

One  day  I  sat  on  the  steps  of  the  lodging-house  in 
217 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

the  sun.  I  had  been  for  a  long  walk  and  I  was  very 
tired,  very  sick  of  my  mortal  coil,  very  sure  that  I  did 
not  care  if  the  end  were  to  be  sleep  or  life  everlasting. 
Then  came,  slowly  around  the  corner  of  the  shabby 
street  and  toward  me,  a  hansom  cab.  Its  occupant,  an 
alert,  very  young,  eager  man,  kept  glancing  here  and 
there  as  if  he  were  looking  for  something  or  some  one; 
for  the  old  East  Side  street  had  still  its  old  look,  as  if 
all  the  inhabitants  of  its  houses  had  rushed  out  to 
watch  an  eclipse  of  the  sun  or  the  approach  of  a 
procession— and  were  patiently  and  idly  awaiting  the 
event. 

The  children,  and  even  many  of  the  older  people, 
mocked  at  the  young  man  in  the  hansom  and  flung 
him  good-natured  insults.  But  he  knew  the  language 
of  the  East  Side  and  returned  better  than  he  received. 
My  old  heart  warmed  a  little  to  his  young,  brightly 
colored  face,  his  quick,  flashing  eyes,  and  his  ready 
repartees.  And  it  seemed  to  me  a  pity  that,  like  all 
the  pleasant  moments  I  had  known,  he,  too,  must  pass 
and  be  over. 

But  his  great  eyes  flashed  suddenly  upon  my  face 
and  rested;  then  he  signalled  to  the  driver  to  stop  and, 
springing  out,  a  big  sketch-book  under  his  arm,  came 
toward  me  with  long,  frank  strides. 

"I  know  it's  cheeky  as  the  devil,"  he  began  in  a 
quick,  cheerful  voice,  while  he  had  yet  some  distance 

218 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

to  come,  "but  I  can't  help  it.     I've  been  looking  for 
you  for  weeks,  and " 

"What  is  it  that  I  can  do  for  you?"  I  asked  pleas 
antly. 

"  You  can  give  me  your  head."  He  said  it  with  an  ap 
pealing  and  delighted  smile.  "I'm  a  sort  of  artist — " 
he  explained. 

"Show  me,"  I  said,  and  held  out  my  hands  for  the 
sketch-book. 

"  Nothing  but  notes  in  it,"  he  said,  but  I  looked,  not 
swiftly,  through  all  the  pages  and — for  we  Poles  have 
an  instinct  in  such  matters — saw  that  the  work  was 
good. 

"Do  you  wish  to  draw  me,  Master?"  I  said. 

He  perceived  that  I  meant  the  term,  and  he  looked 
troubled  and  pleased. 

"Will  you  sit  for  me?"  he  asked.     "I  will " 

But  I  shook  my  head  to  keep  him  from  mentioning 
money. 

"Very  cheerfully,"  I  said.  "It  is  easy  for  the  old 
to  sit — especially  when,  by  the  mere  act  of  sitting,  it 
is  possible  for  them  to  become  immortal.  I  have  a 
room  two  flights  up — where  you  will  not  be  disturbed." 

"Splendid!"  he  said.  "You  are  splendid!  Every 
thing's  splendid!" 

When  he  had  placed  me  as  he  wished,  I  asked  him 
why  my  head  suited  him  more  than  another's. 

219 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

"How  do  I  know?"  he  said.  "Instinct — you  seem 
a  cheerful  man  and  yet  I  have  never  seen  a  head  and 
face  that  stood  so  clearly  for — for — please  take  me  as 
I  am,  I  don't  ever  mean  to  offend — steadiness  in  sor 
row.  ...  I  am  planning  a  picture  in  which  there  is 
to  be  an  ol — a  man  of  your  age  who  looks  as — as  late 
October  would  look  if  it  had  a  face.  .  .  ." 

Then  he  began  to  sketch  me,  and,  as  he  worked,  he 
chattered  about  this  and  that. 

"Funny  thing,"  he  said,  "I  had  a  knife  when  I 
started  and  it's  disappeared." 

"Things  have  that  habit,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "things  and  people,  and  often  peo 
ple  disappear  as  suddenly  and  completely  as  things — 
chin  quarter  of  an  inch  lower — just  so — thank  you 
forever " 

"And  what  experience  have  you  had  with  people 
disappearing?"  I  asked.  "And  you  so  young  and 
masterful." 

"I?"  he  said.  "Why,  a  very  near  and  dear  expe 
rience.  When  I  was  quite  a  little  boy  my  own  father 
went  to  his  place  of  business  and  was  never  heard  of 
again  from  that  day  to  this.  But  he  must  have  done 
it  on  purpose,  because  it  was  found  that  he  had  put 
all  his  affairs  into  the  most  regular  and  explicit 
order " 

I  felt  a  little  shiver,  as  if  I  had  taken  cold. 
220 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

"And,  do  you  know,"  here  the  young  man  dawdled 
with  his  pencil  and  presently  ceased  working  for  the 
moment,  "I've  always  felt  as  if  I  had  had  a  hand  in 
it — though  I  was  only  seven.  I'd  done  something  so 
naughty  and  wrong  that  I  looked  forward  all  day  to 
my  father's  home-coming  as  a  sinner  looks  forward  to 
going  to  hell.  My  father  had  never  punished  me. 
But  he  would  this  time,  I  knew — and  I  was  terribly 
afraid  and — sometimes  I  have  thought  that,  perhaps, 
I  prayed  to  God  that  my  father  might  never  come 
home.  I'm  not  sure  I  prayed  that — but  I  have  a 
sneaking  suspicion  that  I  did.  Anyway,  he  never 
came,  and,  Great  Grief!  what  a  time  there  was.  My 
mother  nearly  went  insane — —  " 

"What  had  you  done?"  I  asked,  forcing  a  smile, 
"to  merit  such  terrible  punishment?" 

The  young  man  blushed. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "my  mother  had  been  quite  sick 
for  a  long  time,  and,  to  tempt  her  appetite,  my  father 
had  journeyed  'way  uptown  and  at  vast  expense 
bought  her  a  bunch  of  wonderful  white  hot-house 
grapes.  I  remember  she  wouldn't  eat  them  at  first — 
just  wanted  to  look  at  them — and  my  father  hung  them 
for  her  over  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Well,  soon  after  he'd 
gone  to  business  she  fell  asleep,  leaving  the  grapes 
untouched.  They  tempted  me,  and  I  fell.  I  wanted 
to  show  off,  I  suppose,  before  my  young  friends  in  the 

221 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

street — there  was  a  girl,  Minnie  Hopflekoppf,  I  think 
her  name  was,  who'd  passed  me  up  for  an  Italian 
butcher's  son.  I  wanted  to  show  her.  I'm  sure  I 
didn't  mean  to  eat  the  things.  I'jn  sure  I  meant  to 
return  with  them  and  hang  them  back  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed." 

"Please  go  on,"  I  managed  to  say.  "This  is  such 
a  very  human  page — I'm  really  excited  to  know  what 
happened." 

"Well,  one  of  those  flashy  Bowery  dudes  came  loaf 
ing  along  and  said:  'Hi,  Johnny,  let's  have  a  look  at 
the  grapes.'  I  let  him  take  them,  in  my  pride  and 
innocence,  and  he  wouldn't  give  them  back.  He  only 
laughed  and  began  to  eat  them  before  my  eyes.  I 
begged  for  them,  and  wept,  and  told  him  how  my 
mother  was  sick  and  my  father  had  gone  'way  uptown 
to  get  the  grapes  for  her  because  there  were  none  such 
to  be  had  in  our  neighborhood.  And,  please,  he  must 
give  them  back  because  they  were  White  Muscats  of 
Alexandria,  very  precious,  and  my  father  would  kill 
me.  But  the  young  man  only  laughed  until  I  began 
to  make  a  real  uproar.  Then  he  said  sharply  to  shut 
up,  called  me  a  young  thief,  and  said  if  I  said  another 
word  he'd  turn  me  over  to  the  police.  Then  he  flung 
me  a  fifty-cent  piece  and  went  away,  munching  the 
grapes.  And,"  the  young  man  finished,  "the  fifty- 
cent  piece  was  lead." 

222 


WHITE  MUSCATS  OF  ALEXANDRIA 

Then  he  looked  up  from  his  sketch  and,  seeing  the 
expression  of  my  face,  gave  a  little  cry  of  delight. 

"Great  Grief,  man!"  he  cried,  "stay  as  you  are — 
only  hold  that  expression  for  two  minutes!" 

But  I  have  held  it  from  that  day  to  this. 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

However  bright  the  court's  light  may  have  appeared 
to  the  court,  the  place  in  which  it  was  shining  smelt 
damnably  of  oil.  It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  after 
noon,  but  already  the  Alaskan  night  had  descended. 
The  court  sat  in  a  barn,  warmed  from  without  by  the 
heavily  drifted  snow  and  from  within  by  the  tiny  flames 
of  lanterns  and  the  breathing  of  men,  horses,  and  cows. 
Here  and  there  in  the  outskirts  of  the  circle  of  light 
could  be  seen  the  long  face  of  a  horse  or  the  horned 
head  of  a  cow.  There  was  a  steady  sound  of  munch 
ing.  The  scene  was  not  unlike  many  paintings  of  the 
stable  in  Bethlehem  on  the  night  of  the  Nativity.  And 
here,  too,  justice  was  being  born  in  a  dark  age.  There 
had  been  too  many  sudden  deaths,  too  many  jumped 
claims,  too  much  drinking,  too  much  shooting,  too 
many  strong  men,  too  few  weak  men,  until  finally— 
for  time,  during  the  long  winter,  hung  upon  the  neck 
like  a  millstone — the  gorges  of  the  more  decent  had 
risen.  Hence  the  judge,  hence  the  jury,  hence  the 
prisoner,  dragged  from  his  outlying  cabin  on  a  charge 
of  murder.  As  there  were  no  lawyers  in  the  commu- 

227 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

nity,  the  prisoner  held  his  own  brief.  Though  not  a 
Frenchman,  he  had  been  sarcastically  nicknamed, 
because  of  his  small  size  and  shrinking  expression, 
Lou  Garou. 

The  judge  rapped  for  order  upon  the  head  of  a 
flour-barrel  behind  which  he  sat.  "Lou  Garou,"  he 
said,  "you  are  accused  of  having  shot  down  Ruddy 
Boyd  in  cold  blood,  after  having  called  him  to  the  door 
of  his  cabin  for  that  purpose  on  the  twenty-ninth  of 
last  month.  Guilty  or  not  guilty  ?" 

"Sure,"  said  Lou  Garou  timidly,  and  nodding  his 
head.  "I  shot  him." 

"Why?"  asked  the  judge. 

For  answer  Lou  Garou  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
pointed  to  the  chief  witness,  a  woman  who  had  wound 
her  head  in  a  dark  veil  so  that  her  face  could  not  be 
seen.  "Make  her  take  that  veil  off,"  said  he  in  a 
shrill  voice,  "and  you'll  see  why  I  shot  him." 

The  woman  rose  without  embarrassment  and  re 
moved  her  veil.  But,  unless  in  the  prisoner's  eyes,  she 
was  not  beautiful. 

"Thank  you,  madam,"  said  the  judge,  after  an  em 
barrassed  pause.  "Ahem!"  And  he  addressed  the 
prisoner.  "Your  answer  has  its  romantic  value,  Lou 
Garou,  but  the  court  is  unable  to  attach  to  it  any  ethical 
significance  whatsoever.  Did  you  shoot  Ruddy  Boyd 
because  of  this  lady's  appearance  in  general,  or  because 

228 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

of  her  left  eye  in  particular,  which  I  note  has  been 
blackened  as  if  by  a  blow  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  did  that,"  said  Lou  Garou  naively. 

"Sit  down!"  thundered  the  judge.  The  foreman  of 
the  jury,  a  South  Carolinian  by  birth,  had  risen,  re 
volver  in  hand,  with  the  evident  intention  of  executing 
the  prisoner  on  the  spot.  "You  have  sworn  to  abide 
by  the  finding  of  the  court,"  continued  the  judge 
angrily.  "  If  you  don't  put  up  that  gun  I'll  blow  your 
damned  head  off." 

The  juror,  who  was  not  without  a  sense  of  the  ridi 
culous,  smiled  and  sat  down. 

"You  have  pleaded  guilty,"  resumed  the  judge 
sternly,  "to  the  charge  of  murder.  You  have  given  a 
reason.  You  have  either  said  too  much  or  too  little. 
If  you  are  unable  further  to  justify  your  cold-blooded 
and  intemperate  act,  you  shall  hang." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  say?"  whined  Lou 
Garou. 

"I  want  you  to  tell  the  court,"  said  the  judge,  "why 
you  shot  Ruddy  Boyd.  If  it  is  possible  for  you  to 
justify  that  act  I  want  you  to  do  it.  The  court,  repre 
senting,  as  it  does,  the  justice  of  the  land,  has  a  lean 
ing,  a  bias,  toward  mercy.  Stand  up  and  tell  us  your 
story  from  the  beginning." 

The  prisoner  once  more  indicated  the  woman. 
"About  then,"  he  said,  "I  had  nothin'  but  Jenny 

229 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

—and  twenty  dollars  gold  that  I  had  loaned  to  Ruddy 
Boyd.  Hans" — he  pointed  to  a  stout  German  sitting 
on  the  Carolinian's  left — "wouldn't  give  me  any  more 
credit  at  the  store."  He  whined  and  sniffled.  "I'm 
not  blaming  you  one  mite,  Hans,"  he  said,  "but  I 
had  to  have  flour  and  bacon,  and  all  I  had  was  twenty 
dollars  gold  that  Ruddy  owed  me.  So  I  says, '  Jenny, 
I'll  step  over  to  Ruddy's  shack  and  ask  him  for  that 
money.'  She  says,  ' Think  you'd  better?'  and  I  says, 
'Sure.'  So  she  puts  me  up  a  snack  of  lunch,  and  I 
takes  my  rifle  and  starts.  Ruddy  was  in  his  ditch 
(having  shovelled  out  the  snow),  and  I  says,  'Ruddy, 
how  about  that  twenty?'  You  all  know  what  a 
nice  hearty  way  Ruddy  had  with  him — outside.  He 
slaps  his  thigh,  and  laughs,  and  looks  astonished, 
and  then  he  says:  'My  Gawd,  Lou,  if  I  hadn't  clean 
forgot!  Now  ain't  that  funny?'  So  I  laughs,  too, 
and  says,  'It  do  seem  kind  of  funny,  and  how  about 
it?'  'Now,  Lou,'  says  he,  'you've  come  on  me  sud 
den,  and  caught  me  awkward.  I  ain't  got  a  dime's 
worth  of  change.  But  tell  you  what:  I'll  give  you  a 
check.' 

"I  says,  'On  what  bank?' 

"He  says,  'Oh,  Hans  over  at  the  store— he  knows 
me '" 

All  eyes  were  turned  on  the  German.     Lou  Garou 
continued : 

230 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

"Ruddy  says:  'Hans  dassen't  not  cash  it.  He's 
scared  of  me,  the  pot-bellied  old  fool." 

The  stout  German  blinked  behind  his  horn  spec 
tacles.  He  feared  neither  God  nor  man,  but  he  was 
very  patient.  He  made  no  remark. 

"  'If  Hans  won't/  says  Ruddy,  'Stewart  sure 
will!'" 

The  foreman  of  the  jury  rose  like  a  spring  slowly 
uncoiling.  He  looked  like  a  snake  ready  to  strike. 
"May  I  inquire,"  he  drawled,  "what  reason  the  late 
lamented  gave  for  supposing  that  I  would  honor  his 
wuffless  paper?" 

Lou  Garou  sniffled  with  embarrassment  and  looked 
appealingly  at  the  judge. 

"Tell  him,"  ordered  the  latter. 

"Mind,  then,"  said  Lou  Garou,  "it  was  him  said  it, 
not  me." 

"What  was  said?"  glinted  the  foreman. 

"Something,"  said  Lou  Garou  in  a  small  still  voice 
like  that  which  is  said  to  appertain  to  conscience, 
"something  about  him  having  give  you  a  terrible  lick- 
in'  once,  that  you'd  never  got  over.  He  says,  'If 
Stewart  won't  cash  it,  tell  him  I'll  step  over  and  kick 
the  stuffin'  out  of  him.'  " 

The  juror  on  the  left  end  of  the  front  row  stood 
up. 

"Did  he  say  anything  about  me?"  he  asked. 

231 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

"Nothin'  particular,  Jimmy,"  said  Lou  Garou.  "He 
only  said  some  thin'  general,  like  'them  bally-washed 
hawgs  over  to  the  Central  Store/  I  think  it  was." 

"The  court,"  said  the  judge  stiffly,  "knows  the  de 
ceased  to  have  been  a  worthless  braggart.  Proceed 
with  your  story." 

"Long  and  short  of  it  was,"  said  Lou  Garou,  "we 
arranged  that  Ruddy  himself  was  to  get  the  check 
cashed  and  bring  me  the  money  the  next  Thursday. 
He  swears  on  his  honor  he  won't  keep  me  waitin'  no 
longer.  So  I  steps  off  and  eats  my  lunch,  and  goes 
home  and  tells  Jenny  how  it  was. 

"  'Hope  you  get  it/  says  she.     'I  know  him.9 

"It  so  happened,"  continued  Lou  Garou,  "Thurs 
day  come,  and  no  Ruddy.  No  Ruddy,  Friday.  Sat 
urday  I  see  the  weather  was  bankin'  up  black  for 
snow,  so  I  says:  'Jenny,  it's  credit  or  bust.  I'll 
step  up  to  the  store  and  talk  to  Hans.'  So  Jenny 
puts  me  up  a  snack  of  lunch,  and  I  goes  to  see  Hans. 
Hans,"  said  Lou  Garou,  addressing  that  juror  directly, 
"did  I  or  didn't  I  come  to  see  you  that  Saturday?" 

Hans  nodded. 

"  Did  you  or  didn't  you  let  me  have  some  flour  and 
bacon  on  tick?" 

"I  did  nod,"  said  Hans. 

Lou  Garou  turned  once  more  to  the  judge.  "So  I 
goes  home,"  he  said,  "and  finds  my  chairs  broke,  and 

232 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

my  table  upside  down,  and  the  dishes  broke,  and 
Jenny  gone." 

There  was  a  mild  sensation  in  the  court. 

"I  casts  about  for  signs,  and  pretty  soon  I  finds  a 
wisp  of  red  hair,  roots  an'  all.  I  says,  'Ruddy's  hair/ 
I  says.  'He's  bin  and  gone/ 

"So  I  takes  my  gun  and  starts  for  Ruddy's,  over  the 
mountain.  It's  hours  shorter  than  by  the  valley,  for 
them  that  has  good  legs. 

"I  was  goin'  down  the  other  side  of  the  mountain 
when  it  seems  to  me  I  hears  voices.  I  bears  to  the 
left,  and  looks  down  the  mountain,  and  yonder  I  sees 
a  man  and  a  woman  on  the  valley  path  to  Ruddy's. 
The  man  he  wants  the  woman  to  go  on.  The  woman 
she  wants  to  go  back.  I  can  hear  their  voices  loud  and 
mad,  but  not  their  words.  Pretty  soon  Ruddy  he 
takes  Jenny  by  the  arm  and  twists  it — very  slow — 
tighter  and  tighter.  She  sinks  to  the  ground.  He 
goes  on  twistin'.  Pretty  soon  she  indicates  that  she 
has  enough.  He  helps  her  up  with  a  kick,  and  they 
goes  on." 

The  foreman  of  the  jury  rose.  "Your  honor,"  he 
said,  "it  is  an  obvious  case  of  raptce  puellce.  In  my 
opinion  the  prisoner  was  more  than  justified  in  shoot 
ing  the  man  Ruddy  Boyd  like  a  dog." 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  judge. 

Lou  Garou,  somewhat  excited  by  painful  recollec 
tions,  went  on  in  a  stronger  voice.  "I  puts  up  my 

233 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

hind  sight  to  three  hundred  yards  and  draws  a  bead  on 
Ruddy,  between  the  shoulders.  Then  I  lowers  my 
piece  and  uncocks  her.  'Stop  a  bit/  I  says.  'How 
about  that  twenty?' 

"It's  gettin'  dark,  and  I  follows  them  to  Ruddy's. 
I  hides  my  gun  in  a  bush  and  knocks  on  the  door. 
Ruddy  comes  out  showin'  his  big  teeth  and  laughin.' 
He  closes  the  door  behind  him. 

"  'Come  for  that  twenty,  Lou?'  says  he. 

"'Sure,'  says  I. 

"He  thinks  a  minute,  then  he  laughs  and  turns  and 
flings  open  the  door.  'Come  in,'  he  says. 

"I  goes  in. 

"'Hallo!'  says  he,  like  he  was  awful  surprised. 
'Here's  a  friend  of  yours,  Lou.  Well,  I  never!' 

"  I  sees  Jenny  sittin'  in  a  corner,  tied  hand  and  foot. 
I  says,  'Hallo,  Jenny';  she  says,  'Hallo,  Lou.'  Then 
I  turns  to  Ruddy.  'How  about  that  twenty?'  I  says. 

'"Well,  I'm  damned!'  he  says.  'All  he  thinks 
about  is  his  twenty.  Well,  here  you  are.' 

"He  goes  down  into  his  pocket  and  fetches  up  a 
slug,  and  I  pockets  it. 

"  'There/  says  he;  'you've  got  yours,  and  I've  got 
mine.' 

"I  don't  find  nothin'  much  to  say,  so  I  says,  'Well, 
good-night  all,  I'll  be  goin'.' 

"Then  Jenny  speaks  up.  'Ain't  you  goin'  to  do 
nothin'?'  she  says. 

234 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

"  'Why,  Jenny,"  says  I  'what  can  7  do?' 

"  'All  right  for  you/  she  says.  'Turn  me  loose, 
Ruddy;  no  need  to  keep  me  tied  after  that/ 

"So  I  says  'Good-night'  again  and  goes.  Ruddy 
comes  to  the  door  and  watches  me.  I  looks  back 
once  and  waves  my  hand,  but  he  don't  make  no  sign. 
I  says  to  myself,  'I  can  see  him  because  of  the  light  at 
his  back,  but  he  can't  see  me.'  So  I  makes  for  my 
gun,  finds  her,  turns,  and  there's  Ruddy  still  standin' 
at  the  door  lookin'  after  me  into  the  dark.  It  was  a 
pot  shot.  Then  I  goes  back,  and  steps  over  Ruddy 
into  the  shack  and  unties  Jenny. 

"  'Lou,'  she  says,  'I  thought  I  knowed  you  inside 
out.  But  you  fooled  me!1 

"By  reason  of  the  late  hour  we  stops  that  night  in 
Ruddy's  shack,  and  that's  all." 

The  prisoner,  after  shuffling  his  feet  uncertainly,  sat 
down. 

"Madam,"  said  the  judge,  "may  I  ask  you  to 
rise?" 

The  woman  stood  up;  not  unhandsome  in  a  hard, 
bold  way,  except  for  her  black  eye. 

"Madam,"  said  the  judge,  "is  what  the  prisoner  has 
told  us,  in  so  far  as  it  concerns  you,  true?" 

"Every  word  of  it." 

"The  man  Ruddy  Boyd  used  violence  to  make  you 
go  with  him?" 

235 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

"He  twisted  my  arm  and  cramped  my  little  finger 
till  I  couldn't  bear  the  pain." 

"You  are,  I  take  it,  the  prisoner's  wife?" 

The  color  mounted  slowly  into  the  woman's  cheeks. 
She  hesitated,  choked  upon  her  words.  The  prisoner 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Your  honor,"  he  cried,  "in  a  question  of  life  or 
death  like  this  Jenny  and  me  we  speaks  the  truth,  and 
nothin'  but  the  truth.  She's  not  my  wife.  But  I'm 
goin'  to  marry  her,  and  make  an  honest  woman  of  her 
— at  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  if  you  decide  that  way. 
No,  sir;  she  was  Ruddy  Boyd's  wife." 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  broken  by  the  sounds  of 
the  horses  and  cows  munching  their  fodder.  The 
foreman  of  the  jury  uncoiled  slowly. 

"Your  honor,"  he  drawled,  "I  can  find  it  in  my 
heart  to  pass  over  the  exact  married  status  of  the  lady, 
but  I  cannot  find  it  in  my  heart  to  pass  over  without 
explanation  the  black  eye  which  the  prisoner  confesses 
to  have  given  her." 

Lou  Garou  turned  upon  the  foreman  like  a  rat  at 
bay.  "That  night  in  the  shack,"  he  cried,  "I  dreams 
that  Ruddy  comes  to  life.  Jenny  she  hears  me  moan- 
in'  in  my  sleep,  and  she  sits  up  and  bends  over  to  see 
what's  the  matter.  I  think  it's  Ruddy  bendin'  over  to 
choke  me,  and  I  hits  out!" 

"That's  true,  every  word  of  it!"  cried  the  woman. 
236 


WITHOUT  A  LAWYER 

"He  hit  me  in  his  sleep.  And  when  he  found  out 
what  he'd  done  he  cried  over  me,  and  he  kissed  the 
place  and  made  it  well!"  Her  voice  broke  and  ran 
off  into  a  sob. 

The  jury  acquitted  the  prisoner  without  leaving  their 
seats.  One  by  one  they  shook  hands  with  him,  and 
with  the  woman. 

"I  propose,"  said  the  foreman,  "that  by  a  unani 
mous  vote  we  change  this  court-house  into  a  house  of 
worship.  It  will  not  be  a  legal  marriage  precisely, 
but  it  will  answer  until  we  can  get  hold  of  a  minister 
after  the  spring  break  up." 

The  motion  was  carried. 

The  last  man  to  congratulate  the  happy  pair  was  the 
German  Hans.  "Wheneffer,"  he  said,  "you  need  a 
parrel  of  flour  or  something,  you  comes  to  me  py  my 
store." 


237 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE 
"MERRIMAC" 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE 
"MERRIMAC" 

THE  STORY  OF  A  PANIC 


Two  long-faced  young  men  and  one  old  man  with 
a  long  face  sat  upon  the  veranda  of  the  Country  Club 
of  Westchester,  and  looked,  now  into  the  depths  of 
pewter  mugs  containing  mint  and  ice  among  other 
things,  and  now  across  Pelham  Bay  to  the  narrow  pass 
of  water  between  Fort  Schuyler  and  Willets  Point. 
Through  this  pass  the  evening  fleet  of  Sound  steamers 
had  already  torn  with  freight  and  passengers  for  New 
Haven,  Newport,  Fall  River,  and  Portland;  and  had 
already  disappeared  behind  City  Island  Point,  and  in 
such  close  order  that  it  had  looked  as  if  the  Peck,  which 
led,  had  been  towing  the  others.  The  first  waves 
from  the  paddle-wheels  of  the  great  ships  had  crossed 
the  three  miles  of  intervening  bay,  and  were  slapping 
at  the  base  of  the  seawall  that  supported  the  country 
club  pigeon  grounds  and  lawn-tennis  terraces,  when 
another  vessel  came  slowly  and  haughtily  into  view 

241 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE   "MERRIMAC' 

from  between  the  forts.  She  was  as  black  as  the  king 
of  England 's  brougham,  and  as  smart;  her  two  masts 
and  her  great  single  funnel  were  stepped  with  the  most 
insolent  rake  imaginable.  Here  and  there  where  the 
light  of  the  setting  sun  smote  upon  polished  brass  she 
shone  as  with  pools  of  fire. 

"There  she  is,"  said  Powers.  He  had  been  sitting 
in  his  shirt  sleeves,  but  now  he  rose  and  put  on  his  coat 
as  if  the  sight  of  the  huge  and  proud  yacht  had  chilled 
him.  Brett,  with  a  petulant  slap,  killed  a  swollen 
mosquito  against  his  black  silk  ankle  bone.  The  old 
man,  Callender,  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  as  if  try 
ing  to  remember  something;  and  the  yacht,  steaming 
slower  and  slower,  and  yet,  as  it  seemed,  with  more  and 
more  grandeur  and  pride  of  place — as  if  she  knew  that 
she  gave  to  the  whole  bayscape,  and  the  pale  Long 
Island  shore  against  which  she  moved  in  strong  relief, 
an  irrefutable  note  of  dignity— presently  stopped  and 
anchored,  midway  between  the  forts  and  City  Island 
Point;  then  she  began  to  swing  with  the  tide,  until 
she  faced  New  York  City,  from  which  she  had  just 
come. 

Callender  took  his  hand  from  his  forehead.  He  had 
remembered. 

"Young  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "that  yacht  of  Merri- 
man's  has  been  reminding  me  every  afternoon  for  a 
month  of  something,  and  I've  just  thought  what.  You 

242 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE   "MERRIMAC' 

remember  one  day  the  Merrimac  came  down  the 
James,  very  slowly,  and  sunk  the  Cumberland,  and 
damaged  and  frightened  the  Union  fleet  into  fits,  just 
the  way  Merriman  has  been  going  down  to  Wall 
Street  every  morning  and  frightening  us  into  fits? 
Well,  instead  of  finishing  the  work  then  and  there,  she 
suddenly  quit  and  steamed  off  up  the  river  in  the  same 
insolent,  don't-give-a-hoot  way  that  Merriman  comes 
up  from  Wall  Street  every  afternoon.  Of  course, 
when  the  Merrimac  came  down  to  finish  destroying 
the  fleet  the  next  day,  the  Monitor  had  arrived  during 
the  night  and  gave  her  fits,  and  they  called  the  whole 
thing  off.  Anyhow,  it's  that  going-home-to-sleep-on-it 
expression  of  the  Merrimac's  that  I've  been  seeing  in 
the  Sappho." 

"You  were  on  the  Monitor,  weren't  you?"  asked 
Powers  cheerfully. 

The  old  man  did  not  answer,  but  he  was  quite  will 
ing  that  Powers  and  Brett,  and  the  whole  world  for 
that  matter,  should  think  that  he  had  been.  Powers 
and  Brett,  though  in  no  cheerful  mood,  exchanged 
winks. 

"I  don't  see  why  history  shouldn't  repeat  itself," 
said  Powers. 

"You  don't!"  said  Brett.  "Why,  because  there 
isn't  any  Monitor  waiting  for  Merriman  off  Wall 
Street." 

243 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

"And  just  like  the  Civil  War,"  said  Callender,  "this 
trouble  in  the  street  is  a  rich  man's  quarrel  and  a  poor 
man's  war.  Just  because  old  Merriman  is  gunning 
for  Waters,  you,  and  I,  and  the  rest  of  us  are  about  to 
go  up  the  spout." 

Callender  was  a  jaunty  old  man,  tall,  of  command 
ing  presence  and  smart  clothes.  His  white  mustache 
was  the  epitome  of  close-cropped  neatness.  When  he 
lost  money  at  poker  his  brown  eyes  held  exactly  the 
same  twinkle  as  when  he  won,  and  it  was  current 
among  the  young  men  that  he  had  played  greatly  in 
his  day — great  games  for  great  stakes.  Sometimes  he 
had  made  heavy  winnings,  sometimes  he  had  faced 
ruin;  sometimes  his  family  went  to  Newport  for  the 
summer  and  entertained;  sometimes  they  went  to  a 
hotel  somewhere  in  some  mountains  or  other,  where 
they  didn't  even  have  a  parlor  to  themselves.  But  this 
summer  they  were  living  on  in  the  town  house,  keep 
ing  just  enough  rooms  open,  and  a  few  servants  who 
had  weathered  former  panics,  and  who  were  willing  to 
eat  dry  bread  in  bad  times  for  the  sake  of  the  plentiful 
golden  butter  that  they  knew  was  to  be  expected  when 
the  country  believed  in  its  own  prosperity  and  future. 
Just  now  the  country  believed  that  it  was  going  to  the 
dogs.  And  Mr.  Merriman,  the  banker,  had  chosen 
the  opportunity  to  go  gunning  for  Mr.  Waters,  the 
railroad  man.  The  quarrel  between  the  great  men 

244 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

was  personal;  and  so  because  of  a  couple  of  nasty 
tempers  people  were  being  ruined  daily,  honest  stocks 
were  selling  far  below  their  intrinsic  value,  United 
States  Steel  had  been  obliged  to  cut  wages,  there  was  a 
strike  on  in  the  Pennsylvania  coal  fields,  and  the  Cal- 
lenders,  as  I  have  said,  were  not  even  going  to  the 
cheapest  mountain  top  for  the  summer.  Brett  alone 
was  glad  of  this,  because  it  meant  that  little  Miss  Cal- 
lender  would  occasionally  come  out  to  the  country 
club  for  a  game  of  tennis  and  a  swim,  and,  although 
she  had  refused  to  marry  him  on  twenty  distinct  occa 
sions,  he  was  not  a  young  man  to  be  easily  put  from 
his  purpose.  Nor  did  little  Miss  Callender  propose  to 
be  relinquished  by  him  just  yet;  and  she  threw  into 
each  refusal  just  the  proper  amount  of  gentleness  and 
startled-fawn  expression  to  insure  another  proposal 
within  a  month. 

Brett,  looking  upon  Callender  as  his  probable  father- 
in-law,  turned  to  the  old  gentleman  and  said,  with 
guileful  innocence: 

"  Isn't  there  anything  you  can  do,  sir,  to  hold  Merri- 
man  off  ?  Powers  and  I  are  in  the  market  a  little,  but 
our  customers  are  in  heavy,  and  the  way  things  are 
going  we've  got  to  break  whether  we  like  it  or  not." 

Ordinarily  Callender  would  have  pretended  that  he 
could  have  checkmated  Merriman  if  he  had  wanted 
to — for  in  some  things  he  was  a  child,  and  it  humored 

245 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

him  to  pretend,  and  to  intimate,  and  to  look  wise;  but 
on  the  present  occasion,  and  much  to  Powers's  and 
Brett's  consternation,  he  began  to  speak  to  them 
gravely,  and  confidentially,  and  a  little  pitifully.  They 
had  never  before  seen  him  other  than  jaunty  and  deb 
onair,  whether  his  family  were  at  Newport  or  in  the 
mountains. 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  boys,"  he  said;  "you 
have  youth  and  resiliency  on  your  side.  No  matter 
what  happens  to  you  now,  in  money  or  in  love,  you 
can  come  again.  But  we  old  fellows,  buying  and  sell 
ing  with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  with  families  accus 
tomed  to  luxury  dependent  on  us" — he  paused  and 
tugged  at  his  neatly  ordered  necktie  as  if  to  free  his 
throat  for  the  passage  of  more  air — "some  of  us  old 
fellows,"  he  said,  "if  we  go  now  can  never  come 
again — never." 

He  rose  abruptly  and  walked  into  the  house  without 
a  word  more;  but  Brett,  after  hesitating  a  moment, 
followed  him.  Mr.  Callender  had  stopped  in  front  of 
the  "  Delinquent  List."  Seeing  Brett  at  his  elbow,  he 
pointed  with  a  well-groomed  finger  to  his  own  name  at 
the  beginning  of  the  C's. 

"If  I  died  to-night,"  he  said,  neither  gravely  nor 
jocosely,  but  as  if  rather  interested  to  know  whether 
he  would  or  would  not,  "the  club  would  have  a  hard 
time  to  collect  that  sixteen  dollars." 

246 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

"Are  you  serious,  sir?"  Brett  asked. 

"If  to-morrow  is  a  repetition  of  to-day,"  said  Mr. 
Callender,  "you  will  see  the  name  of  Callender  &  Co. 
in  the  evening  papers."  His  lips  trembled  slightly 
under  his  close-cropped  mustache. 

"Then,"  said  Brett,  "this  is  a  good  opportunity 
to  ask  you,  sir,  if  you  have  any  objection  to  me  as  a 
candidate  for  your  youngest  daughter." 

Mr.  Callender  raised  his  eyebrows.  So  small  a 
thing  as  contemplated  matrimony  did  not  disturb  him 
under  the  circumstances. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "I  take  it  you  are  in  earnest.  I 
don't  object  to  you.  I  am  sure  nobody  does." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Brett;   "she  does." 

He  had  succeeded  in  making  Mr.  Callender  laugh. 

"But,"  Brett  went  on,  "I'd  like  your  permission  to 
go  on  trying." 

"You  have  it,"  said  her  father.  "Will  you  and 
Powers  dine  with  me?" 

"No,"  said  Brett.  "Speaking  as  candidate  to  be 
your  son-in-law,  you  cannot  afford  to  give  us  dinner; 
and  in  the  same  way  I  cannot  afford  to  buy  dinner  for 
you  and  Powers.  So  Powers  will  have  to  be  host  and 
pay  for  everything.  I  shall  explain  it  to  him.  .  .  .  But 
look  here,  sir,  are  you  really  up  against  it?" 

To  Brett's  consternation,  Callender  suddenly  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands  and  groaned  aloud. 

247 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

"Don't,"  said  Brett;   "some  one's  coming." 

Callender  recovered  his  usual  poise  with  a  great 
effort.  But  no  one  came. 

"As  far  as  my  wishes  go,  sir,"  said  Brett,  "I'm  your 
son.  You  never  had  a  son,  did  you?  If  you  had  a 
son,  and  if  he  were  young  and  resilient,  you'd  talk  to 
him  and  explain  to  him,  and  in  that  way,  perhaps, 
you'd  get  to  see  things  so  clearly  in  your  own  mind  that 
you'd  be  able  to  think  a  way  out.  Why  don't  you  talk 
to  me  as  if  I  were  your  son  ?  You  see  I  want  to  be  so 
very  much,  and  that's  half  the  battle." 

Callender  often  joked  about  his  affairs,  but  he  never 
talked  about  them.  Now,  however,  he  looked  for  a 
moment  keenly  into  the  young  man's  frank  and  intel 
ligent  face,  hesitated,  and  then,  with  a  grave  and 
courtly  bow,  he  waved  his  hand  toward  two  deep  chairs 
that  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  room  half  facing  each 
other,  as  if  they  themselves  were  engaged  in  conversa 
tion. 

Twenty  minutes  later  Callender  went  upstairs  to 
dress  for  dinner,  but  Brett  rejoined  Powers  on  the 
piazza.  He  sat  down  without  looking  at  Powers  or 
speaking  to  him,  and  his  eyes,  crossing  the  darkening 
bay,  rested  once  more  on  the  lordly  silhouette  of  the 
Sappho.  In  the  failing  light  she  had  lost  something 
of  her  emphatic  outline,  and  was  beginning  to  melt, 
as  it  were,  into  the  shore. 

248 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

Brett  and  Powers  were  partners.  Powers  was  the 
floor  member  of  the  firm  and  Brett  ran  the  office. 
But  they  were  partners  in  more  ways  than  the  one,  and 
had  been  ever  since  they  could  remember.  As  little 
boys  they  had  owned  things  in  common  without  dis 
pute.  At  St.  Marks  Powers  had  pitched  for  the  nine, 
and  Brett  had  caught.  In  their  senior  year  at  New 
Haven  they  had  played  these  positions  to  advantage, 
both  against  Harvard  and  Princeton.  After  gradua 
tion  they  had  given  a  year  to  going  around  the  world. 
In  Bengal  they  had  shot  a  tiger,  each  giving  it  a  mortal 
wound.  In  Siam  they  had  won  the  doubles  cham 
pionship  at  lawn  tennis.  When  one  rode  on  the  water 
wagon  the  other  sat  beside  him,  and  vice  versa. 
Powers's  family  loved  Brett  almost  as  much  as  they 
loved  Powers,  and  if  Brett  Had  had  a  family  it  would 
probably  have  felt  about  Powers  in  the  same  way. 

As  far  as  volume  of  business  and  legitimate  com 
missions  went,  their  firm  was  a  success.  It  could  exe 
cute  orders  with  precision,  despatch,  and  honesty.  It 
could  keep  its  mouth  shut.  But  it  had  not  yet  learned 
to  keep  out  of  the  market  on  its  own  account.  Regu 
larly  as  a  clock  ticks  its  profits  were  wiped  out  in 
speculation.  The  young  men  believed  in  the  future 
of  the  country,  and  wanted  to  get  rich  quick,  not 
because  they  were  greedy,  but  because  that  desire  is 
part  of  the  average  American's  nature  and  equipment. 

249 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

Gradually,  however,  they  were  "getting  wise/'  as  the 
saying  is.  And  they  had  taken  a  solemn  oath  and 
shaken  hands  upon  it,  that  if  ever  they  got  out  of  their 
present  difficulties  they  would  never  again  tempt  the 
goddess  of  fortune. 

"  Old  man's  in  bad,  I  guess,"  said  Powers. 

"I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Brett,  and  was  ashamed 
to  feel  that  he  must  not  be  more  frank  with  his  partner. 
"We're  all  in  bad." 

"The  Cumberland  has  been  sunk,"  said  Powers, 
"and  the  rest  of  us  are  aground  and  helpless,  wait 
ing  for  the  Merrimac  to  come  down  the  river  in  the 
morning."  He  shook  his  fist  at  the  distant  Sappho. 
"Why,"  he  said,  "even  if  we  knew  what  he  knows  it's 
too  late  to  do  anything,  unless  he  does  it.  And  he 
won't.  He  won't  quit  firing  until  Waters  blows  up." 

"I've  a  good  notion,"  said  Brett,  "to  get  out  my 
pigeon  gun,  take  the  club  launch,  board  the  Sappho 
about  midnight,  hold  the  gun  to  old  Merriman's  head, 
and  make  him  promise  to  save  the  country;  or  else 
make  him  put  to  sea,  and  keep  him  there.  If  he  were 
kidnapped  and  couldn't  unload  any  more  securities, 
the  market  would  pull  up  by  itself."  The  young  men 
chuckled,  for  the  idea  amused  them  in  spite  of  their 
troubles. 

By  a  common  impulse  they  turned  and  looked  at  the 
club's  thirty-foot  naphtha  launch  at  anchor  off  the 

250 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

club's  dock;  and  by  a  common  impulse  they  both 
pointed  at  her,  and  both  exclaimed: 

"The  Monitor!" 

Then,  of  course,  they  were  very  careful  not  to  say 
anything  more  until  they  had  crooked  together  the 
little  fingers  of  their  right  hands,  and  in  silence  regis 
tered  a  wish  each.  Then  each  spoke  the  name  of  a 
famous  poet,  and  the  spell  was  ended. 

"What  did  you  wish?"  said  Brett  idly. 

Powers  could  be  very  courtly  and  old  fashioned. 

"My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  "I  fancy  that  I  wished  for 
you  just  what  you  wished  for  yourself." 

Before  this  they  had  never  spoken  about  her  to  each 
other. 

"I  didn't  know  that  you  knew,"  said  Brett. 
"Thanks." 

They  shook  hands.  Then  Brett  broke  into  his  gay, 
happy  laugh. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  why  you  have  to  pay  for  dinner 
for  Mr.  Callender  and  me." 

"Are  we  to  dine?"  asked  Powers,  "before  attacking 
the  Merrimac?" 

"Always,"  assented  Brett,  "and  we  are  to  dress 
first." 

The  two  young  men  rose  and  went  into  the  house, 
Powers  resting  his  hand  affectionately  on  Brett's  fur 
ther  shoulder.  It  was  so  that  they  had  come  off  the 

251 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

field    after    striking    out    Harvard's    last    chance    to 
score. 

At  dinner  Mr.  Callender,  as  became  his  age  and 
experience,  told  the  young  men  many  clean  and  amus 
ing  stories.  Though  the  clouds  were  thick  about  his 
head  he  had  recovered  his  poise  and  his  twinkling  eye 
of  the  good  loser.  Let  his  night  be  sleepless,  let  the 
morrow  crush  him,  but  let  his  young  friends  remember 
that  he  had  gone  to  his  execution  calm,  courteous,  and 
amusing,  his  mustache  trimmed,  his  face  close-shaved, 
his  nails  clean  and  polished.  They  had  often,  he 
knew,  laughed  at  him  for  his  pretensions,  and  his  affec 
tation  of  mysterious  knowledge,  and  all  his  little  vani 
ties  and  superiorities,  but  they  would  remember  him 
for  the  very  real  nerve  and  courage  that  he  was  show 
ing,  and  knew  that  he  was  showing.  The  old  gentle 
man  took  pleasure  in  thinking  that  although  he  was 
about  to  fail  in  affairs,  he  was  not  going  to  fail  in  char 
acter.  He  even  began  to  make  vague  plans  for  trying 
again,  and  when,  after  a  long  dinner,  they  pushed  back 
their  chairs  and  rose  from  the  table,  there  was  a  youth 
ful  resiliency  in  the  voice  with  which  he  challenged 
Powers  to  a  game  of  piquet. 

"That  seems  to  leave  me  out,"  said  Brett. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Callender,  with  snapping  eyes, 
"can  you  play  well  enough  to  be  an  interesting  oppo 
nent,  or  can't  you?" 

252 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

"No,  I  can't,"  said  Brett.  "And  anyway,  I'm  going 
out  in  the  launch  to  talk  things  over  with  Merriman." 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  superior  way,  and  they 
laughed;  but  when  they  had  left  him  for  the  card- 
room  he  walked  out  on  the  veranda  and  stood  looking 
through  the  darkness  at  the  Sappho's  distant  lights, 
and  he  might  have  been  heard  muttering,  as  if  from 
the  depths  of  very  deep  thought: 

"Why  not?" 

II 

At  first  Brett  did  not  head  the  launch  straight  for 
the  Sappho.  He  was  not  sure  in  his  own  mind  whether 
he  intended  to  visit  her,  or  just  to  have  a  near-by  look 
at  her  and  then  return  to  the  club.  He  had  ordered 
the  launch  on  an  impulse  which  he  could  not  explain  to 
himself.  If  she  had  been  got  ready  for  him  promptly 
he  might  not  have  cared  at  the  last  minute  to  go  out  in 
her  at  all.  But  there  had  been  a  long  delay  in  finding 
the  engineer,  and  this  had  provoked  him  and  made 
him  very  sure  that  he  wanted  to  use  the  launch  very 
much.  And  it  hadn't  smoothed  his  temper  to  learn 
that  the  engineer  had  been  found  in  the  kitchen  eating 
a  Virginia  ham  in  company  with  the  kitchen  maid. 

But  the  warmth  and  salt  freshness  that  came  into 
his  face,  and  the  softness  and  great  number  of  the  stars 
soon  pacified  him.  If  she  were  only  with  him,  he 

253 


THE  " MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

thought,  if  her  father  were  only  not  on  the  brink  of 
ruin,  how  pleasant  the  world  would  be.  He  pretended 
that  she  was  with  him,  just  at  his  shoulder,  where  he 
could  not  see  her,  but  there  just  the  same,  and  that  he 
was  steering  the  launch  straight  for  the  ends  of  the 
world.  He  pretended  that  for  such  a  voyage  the 
launch  would  not  need  an  engineer.  He  wondered  if 
under  the  circumstances  it  would  be  safe  to  steer  with 
only  one  hand. 

But  the  launch  ran  suddenly  into  an  oyster  stake 
that  went  rasping  aft  along  her  side,  and  at  the  same 
moment  the  searchlight  from  Fort  Schuyler  beamed 
with  dazzling  playfulness  in  his  face,  and  then  having 
half  blinded  him  wheeled  heavenward,  a  narrow  cor 
nucopia  of  light  that  petered  out  just  short  of  the  stars. 
He  watched  the  searchlight.  He  wondered  how  many 
pairs  of  lovers  it  had  discovered  along  the  shores  of 
Pelham  Bay,  how  many  mint-juleps  it  had  seen  drunk 
on  the  veranda  of  the  country  club,  how  many  kisses 
it  had  interrupted;  and  whether  it  would  rather  pry 
into  people's  private  affairs  or  look  for  torpedo-boats 
and  night  attacks  in  time  of  war.  But  most  of  all  he 
wondered  why  it  spent  so  much  of  its  light  on  space, 
sweeping  the  heavens  like  a  fiery  broom  with  inde 
fatigable  zeal.  There  were  no  lovers  or  torpedo-boats 
up  there.  Even  the  birds  were  in  bed,  and  the  Wright 
brothers  were  known  to  be  at  Pau. 

254 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

Once  more  the  searchlight  smote  him  full  in  the  face 
and  then,  as  if  making  a  pointed  gesture,  swept  from 
him,  and  for  a  long  second  illuminated  the  black  hull 
and  the  yellow  spars  of  the  Sappho.  Then,  as  if  its 
earthly  business  were  over,  the  shaft  of  light,  length 
ening  and  lengthening  as  it  rose  above  intervening 
obstacles,  the  bay,  the  Stepping  Stone  light,  the  Long 
Island  shore,  turned  slowly  upward  until  it  pointed  at 
the  zenith.  Then  it  went  out. 

"That,"  thought  Brett,  "was  almost  a  hint.  First 
it  stirred  me  up;  then  it  pointed  at  the  Sappho;  then 
it  indicated  that  there  is  One  above,  and  then  it  went 
out." 

He  headed  the  launch  straight  for  the  Sappho,  and 
began  to  wonder  what  one  had  to  do  to  get  aboard  of  a 
magnate's  yacht  at  night.  He  turned  to  the  engineer. 

"  Gryce,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  know  about  yachts  ?  " 

"What  about  'em?"  Gryce  answered  sulkily.  He 
was  still  thinking  of  the  kitchen-maid  and  the  unfin 
ished  ham,  or  else  of  the  ham  and  the  unfinished 
kitchen  maid,  I  am  not  sure  which. 

"What  about  'em?"  Brett  echoed.  "Do  they  take 
up  their  gangways  at  night?" 

"Unless  some  one's  expected,"  said  Gryce. 

"Do  they  have  a  watchman?" 

"One  forward  and  one  aft  on  big  yachts." 

"Making  two,"  said  Brett.  "But  aren't  there  usu- 
255 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

ally  two  gangways — one  for  the  crew  and  one  for  the 
owner's  guests?" 

"Crew's  gangway  is  to  starboard,"  Gryce  vouch 
safed. 

Brett  wondered  if  there  was  anything  else  that  he 
ought  to  know.  Then,  in  picturing  himself  as  running 
the  launch  alongside  the  Sappho,  and  hoping  that  he 
would  not  bump  her,  a  question  presented  itself. 

"If  I  were  going  to  visit  the  Sappho"  he  asked, 
"would  I  approach  the  gangway  from  the  stern  or 
from  the  bow?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Gryce. 

"Do  you  mean,"  said  Brett,  "that  you  don't  know 
which  is  the  correct  thing  to  do,  or  that  you  think  I 
can't  steer?" 

"I  mean,"  said  Gryce,  "that  I  know  it's  one  or  the 
other,  but  I  don't  know  which." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Brett,  "we  will  approach  from 
the  rear.  That  is  always  the  better  part  of  valor. 
But  if  the  gangway  has  been  taken  up  for  the  night  I 
don't  know  what  I  shall  do." 

"The  gangway  was  down  when  the  light  was  on  her," 
said  Gryce.  "I  seen  it." 

And  that  it  was  still  down  Brett  could  presently  see 
for  himself.  He  doubted  his  ability  to  make  a  neat 
landing,  but  they  seemed  to  be  expecting  him,  for  a 
sailor  ran  down  to  the  gangway  landing  armed  with  a 

256 


THE  " MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

long  boat-hook,  and  made  the  matter  easy  for  him. 
When  he  had  reached  the  Sappho's  deck  an  officer 
came  forward  in  the  darkness,  and  said: 

"This  way,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"  There's  magic  about,"  thought  Brett,  and  he  accom 
panied  the  officer  aft. 

"Mr.  Merriman,"  said  the  latter,  "told  us  to  expect 
you  half  an  hour  ago  in  a  motor-boat.  Did  you  have 
a  breakdown?" 

"No,"  said  Brett,  and  he  added  mentally,  "but  I'm 
liable  to." 

They  descended  a  companionway;  the  officer  opened 
a  sliding  door  of  some  rich  wood,  and  Brett 
stepped  into  the  highly  lighted  main  saloon  of  the 
Sappho. 

In  one  corner  of  the  room,  with  his  back  turned,  the 
famous  Mr.  Merriman  sat  at  an  upright  piano,  lugu 
briously  drumming.  Brett  had  often  heard  of  the 
great  man's  secret  vice,  and  now  the  sight  of  him  hard 
at  it  made  him,  in  spite  of  the  very  real  trepidation 
under  which  he  was  laboring,  feel  good-natured  all 
over — the  Colossus  of  finance  was  so  earnest  at  his 
music,  so  painstaking  and  interested  in  placing  his 
thick,  clumsy  fingers,  and  so  frankly  delighted  with 
the  effect  of  his  performance  upon  his  own  ear.  It 
seemed  to  Brett  homely  and  pleasant,  the  thought  that 
one  of  the  most  important  people  of  eighty  millions 

257 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

should  find  his  pleasure  in  an  art  for  which  he  had 
neither  gift  nor  training. 

Mr.  Merriman  finished  his  piece  with  a  badly 
fumbled  chord,  and  turned  from  the  piano  with  some 
thing  like  the  show  of  reluctance  with  which  a  man 
turns  from  a  girl  who  has  refused  him.  That  Mr. 
Merriman  did  not  start  or  change  expression  on  seeing 
a  stranger  in  the  very  heart  of  his  privacy  was  also  in 
keeping  with  his  reputed  character.  It  was  also  like 
him  to  look  steadily  at  the  young  man  for  quite  a  long 
while  before  speaking.  But  finally  to  be  addressed  in 
courteous  and  pleasant  tones  was  not  what  Brett  ex 
pected.  For  this  he  had  his  own  good  looks  to  thank, 
as  Mr.  Merriman  hated,  with  the  exception  of  his  own 
music,  everything  that  was  ugly. 

"Good-evening,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Merriman.  "But  I 
can't  for  the  life  of  me  think  what  you  are  doing  on  my 
yacht.  I  was  expecting  a  man,  but  not  you." 

"You  couldn't  guess,"  said  Brett,  "why  I  have  been 
so  impertinent  as  to  call  upon  you  without  an  invitation." 

"Then,"  said  Mr.  Merriman,  "perhaps  you  had  bet 
ter  tell  me.  I  think  I  have  seen  you  before." 

"My  name  is  Brett,"  said  Brett.  "You  may  have 
seen  me  trying  to  play  tennis  at  Newport.  I  have 
often  seen  you  there,  looking  on." 

"You  didn't  come  to  accuse  me  of  being  a  looker- 
on?"  Mr.  Merriman  asked. 

258 


THE   "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

"No,  sir,"  said  Brett,  "but  I  do  wish  that  could 
have  been  the  reason.  I've  come,  sir,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  because  you  are,  on  the  contrary,  so  very,  very 
active  in  the  game." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Merriman  rather  coldly. 

"Oh,"  said  Brett,  "everybody  I  care  for  in  the  world 
is  being  ruined,  including  myself,  and  I  said,  'Mr. 
Merriman  could  save  us  all  if  he  only  would/  So  I 
came  to  ask  you  if  you  couldn't  see  your  way  to  letting 
up  on  us  all." 

"Mr.  Brett,"  said  Mr.  Merriman,  "you  may  have 
heard,  since  gossip  occasionally  concerns  herself  with 
me,  that  in  my  youth  I  was  a  priest." 

Brett  nodded. 

"Well,"  continued  Mr.  Merriman,  "I  have  never 
before  listened  to  so  na'ive  a  confession  as  yours." 

Brett  blushed  to  his  eyes. 

"I  knew  when  I  came,"  he  said,  "that  I  shouldn't 
know  how  to  go  about  what  I've  come  for." 

"  But  I  think  I  have  a  better  opinion  of  you,"  smiled 
Mr.  Merriman,  and  his  smile  was  very  engaging. 
"You  have  been  frank  without  being  fresh,  you  have 
been  bashful  without  showing  fear.  You  meet  the  eye 
in  a  manly  way,  and  you  seem  a  clean  and  worthy 
young  man.  As  opposed  to  these  things,  what  you 
might  have  thought  out  to  say  to  me  would  hardly 


259 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

"Oh,"  cried  Brett  impulsively,  "if  you  would  only 
letup!" 

"I  suppose,  Mr.  Brett,"  the  banker  smiled,  even 
more  engagingly,  "that  you  mean  you  would  like  me 
to  come  to  the  personal  rescue  of  all  those  persons  who 
have  recently  shown  bad  judgment  in  the  conduct  of 
their  affairs.  But  let  me  tell  you  that  I  have  precisely 
your  own  objections  to  seeing  people  go  to  smash. 
But  they  will  do  it.  They  don't  even  come  to  me  for 
advice." 

"You  wouldn't  give  it  to  them  if  they  did,"  said 
Brett. 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Merriman,  "I  couldn't.  But  I 
should  like  to,  and  a  piece  of  my  mind  to  boot.  Now, 
sir,  you  have  suggested  something  for  me  to  do.  Will 
you  go  further  and  tell  me  how  I  am  to  do  it?" 

"Why,"  said  Brett,  diffidently  but  unabashed,  "you 
could  start  in  early  to-morrow  morning,  couldn't  you, 
and  bull  the  market?" 

"Mr.  Brett,"  said  Mr.  Merriman  forcefully,  "I  have 
for  the  last  month  been  straining  my  resources  to  hold 
the  market.  But  it  is  too  heavy,  sir,  for  one  pair  of 
shoulders." 

A  look  of  doubt  must  have  crossed  Brett's  face,  for 
the  banker  smote  his  right  fist  into  the  palm  of  his  left 
hand  with  considerable  violence,  and  rose  to  his  feet, 
almost  menacingly. 

260 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

"Have  the  courtesy  not  to  doubt  my  statements, 
young  sir,"  he  said  sharply.  "I  have  made  light  of 
your  intrusion;  see  that  you  do  not  make  light  of  the 
courtesy  and  consideration  thus  shown  you." 

"  Of  course,  I  believe  you,"  said  Brett,  and  he  did. 

"You  are  one  of  those,"  said  Mr.  Merriman,  "who 
listen  to  what  the  run  of  people  say,  and  make  capital 
of  it." 

"Of  course,  I  can't  help  hearing  what  people  say," 
said  Brett. 

"Or  believing  it!"  Mr.  Merriman  laughed  savagely. 
"What  are  they  saying  of  me  these  days?"  he  asked. 

Brett  hesitated. 

"Come,  come,"  said  the  great  man,  in  a  mocking 
voice.  "You  are  here  without  an  invitation.  Enter 
tain  me!  Entertain  me!  Make  good!" 

Brett  was  nettled. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "they  say  that  Mr.  Waters  was 
tremendously  extended  for  a  rise  in  stocks,  and  that 
you  found  it  out,  and  that  you  hate  him,  and  that  you 
went  for  him  to  give  him  a  lesson,  and  that  you  pulled 
all  the  props  out  of  the  market,  and  smashed  it  all  to 
pieces,  just  for  a  private  spite.  That's  what  they 
say!" 

The  banker  was  silent  for  quite  a  long  time. 

"If  there  wasn't  something  awful  about  that,"  he 
said  at  last,  "it  would  be  very  funny." 

261 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC" 

The  officer  who  had  ushered  Brett  into  the  saloon 
appeared  at  the  door. 

"Well?"  said  Merriman  curtly. 

"There's  a  gentleman,"  said  the  officer,  "who  wants 
to  come  aboard.  He  says  you  are  expecting  him. 
But  as  you  only  mentioned  one  gentleman " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Merriman,  "I'm  expecting  this 
other  gentleman,  too." 

He  turned  to  Brett. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  remain,"  he  said,  "to 
assist  at  a  conference  on  the  present  state  of  the  market 
between  yourself,  and  myself,  and  my  arch-enemy — 
Mr.  Waters." 

Ill 

Even  if  Brett  should  live  to  be  a  distinguished  finan 
cier  himself — which  is  not  likely — he  will  never  forget 
that  midnight  conference  on  board  the  Sappho.  He 
had  supposed  that  famous  men — unless  they  were  dead 
statesmen — thought  only  of  themselves,  and  how  they 
might  best  and  most  easily  increase  their  own  power 
and  wealth.  He  had  believed  with  the  rest  of  the 
smaller  Wall  Street  interests  that  the  present  difficul 
ties  were  the  result  of  a  private  feud.  Instead  of  this 
he  now  saw  that  the  supposed  quarrellers  had  forgotten 
their  differences,  and  were  in  the  closest  kind  of  an 
alliance  to  save  the  situation.  He  discovered  that 

262 


THE  " MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

until  prices  had  fallen  fifty  points  neither  of  them  had 
been  in  the  market  to  any  significant  extent;  and  that, 
to  avert  the  appalling  calamities  which  seemed  immi 
nent,  both  were  ready  if  necessary  to  impoverish  them 
selves  or  to  take  unusual  risks  of  so  doing.  He  learned 
the  real  causes  of  the  panic,  so  far  as  these  were  not 
hidden  from  Merriman  and  Waters  themselves,  and 
when  at  last  the  two  men  decided  what  should  be  at 
tempted,  to  what  strategic  points  they  should  send  re- 
enforcements,  and  just  what  assistance  they  should  ask 
the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  to  furnish,  Brett  felt  that 
he  had  seen  history  in  the  making. 

Waters  left  the  Sappho  at  one  in  the  morning,  and 
Brett  was  for  going,  too,  but  Merriman  laid  a  hand  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder  and  asked  him  to  remain 
for  a  few  moments. 

"Now,  my  son,"  he  said,  "you  see  how  the  panic  has 
affected  some  of  the  so-called  big  interests.  It  may  be 
that  Waters  and  I  can't  do  very  much.  But  it  will  be 
good  for  you  to  remember  that  we  tried;  it  will  make 
you  perhaps  see  others  in  a  more  tolerant  light.  But 
for  purposes  of  conversation  you  will,  of  course,  forget 
that  you  have  been  here.  Now,  as  to  your  own  af 
fairs " 

Mr.  Merriman  looked  old  and  tired,  but  very  indul 
gent  and  kind. 

"  Knowing  what  I  know  now,"  said  Brett,  "  I  would 
263 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

rather  take  my  chances  with  the  other  little  fools  who 
have  made  so  much  trouble  for  you  and  Mr.  Waters. 
If  your  schemes  work  out  I'll  be  saved  in  spite  of  my 
self;  and  if  they  don't — well,  I  hope  I've  learned  not 
to  be  so  great  a  fool  again." 

"In  every  honest  young  man,"  said  Merriman, 
"there  is  something  of  the  early  Christian — he  is  very 
noble  and  very  silly.  Write  your  name  and  telephone 
number  on  that  sheet  of  paper.  At  least,  you  won't 
refuse  orders  from  me  in  the  morning.  Waters  and  I 
will  have  to  use  many  brokers  to-morrow,  of  whom  I 
hope  you  will  consent  to  be  one." 

Brett  hung  his  head  in  pleasure  and  shame.  Then 
he  looked  Mr.  Merriman  in  the  face  with  a  bright 
smile. 

"If  you've  got  to  help  some  private  individual,  Mr. 
Merriman,  I'd  rather  you  didn't  make  it  me;  I'd  rather 
you  made  it  old  man  Callender.  If  he  goes  under 
now  he'll  never  get  to  the  top  again." 

"Not  Samuel  B.  Callender?"  said  Merriman,  with 
a  note  of  surprise  and  very  real  interest  in  his  voice. 
"Is  he  in  trouble?  I  didn't  know.  Why,  that  will 
never  do — a  fine  old  fighting  character  like  that — and 
besides  .  .  .  why,  wouldn't  you  have  thought  that  he 
would  have  come  to  me  himself  or  that  at  least  he 
would  have  confided  in  my  son  Jim?" 

Brett  winced. 

264 


THE  "MONITOR"  AND  THE  "MERRIMAC' 

Merriman  wrote  something  upon  a  card  and  handed 
it  to  Brett. 

"Can  you  see  that  he  gets  that?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Brett. 

"Tell  him,  then,  to  present  it  at  my  office  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  It  will  get  him  straight  to  me. 
I  can't  stand  idle  and  see  the  father  of  the  girl  my  boy 
is  going  to  marry  ruined." 

"I  didn't  know — "said  Brett.  He  was  very  white, 
and  his  lips  trembled  in  spite  of  his  best  efforts  to 
control  them.  "I  congratulate  you,  sir.  She  is  very 
lovely,"  he  added. 

Mr.  Merriman  regarded  the  miserable  young  man 
quizzically. 

"But,"  he  said,  "Mr.  Callender  has  three  daughters." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Brett  dismally,  "there  is  only  the 
one." 

"My  boy,"  said  Mr.  Merriman,  "I  am  afraid  that 
you  are  an  incorrigible  plunger— at  stocks,  at  romance, 
and  at  conclusions.  I  don't  know  if  I  am  going  to 
comfort  you  or  give  you  pain,  but  the  gin  my  son  is 
going  to  marry  is  Mary  Callender." 

The  color  returned  to  Brett's  cheek  and  the  sparkle 
to  his  eyes.  He  grasped  Mr.  Merriman  by  both  hands, 
and  in  a  confidential  voice  he  said: 

"Mr.  Merriman,  there  is  no  such  person." 


265 


THE  McTAVISH 


THE  McTAVISH 


By  the  look  of  her  she  might  have  been  a  queen,  or 
a  princess,  or  at  the  very  least  a  duchess.  But  she 
was  no  one  of  these.  She  was  only  a  commoner — a 
plain  miss,  though  very  far  from  plain.  Which  is  ex 
traordinary  when  you  consider  that  the  blood  of  the 
Bruce  flowed  with  exceeding  liveliness  in  her  veins,  to 
gether  with  the  blood  of  many  another  valiant  Scot — 
Randolph,  Douglas,  Campbell — who  bled  with  Bruce 
or  for  him. 

With  the  fact  that  she  was  not  at  the  very  least  a 
duchess,  most  of  her  temporal  troubles  came  to  an 
abrupt  end.  When  she  tired  of  her  castle  at  Beem- 
Tay  she  could  hop  into  her  motor-car  and  fly  down  the 
Great  North  Road  to  her  castle  at  Brig  O'Dread. 
This  was  a  fifty-mile  run,  and  from  any  part  of  the  road 
she  could  see  land  that  belonged  to  her — forest,  farm, 
and  moor.  If  the  air  at  Beem-Tay  was  too  formal,  or 
the  keep  at  Brig  O'Dread  too  gloomy,  she  could  put  up 
at  any  of  her  half-dozen  shooting  lodges,  built  in  wild, 
inaccessible,  wild-fowly  places,  and  shake  the  dust  of 

269 


THE  McTAVISH 

the  world  from  her  feet,  and  tread,  just  under  heaven, 
upon  the  heather. 

But  mixed  up  with  all  this  fine  estate  was  one  other 
temporal  trouble.  For,  over  and  above  the  expenses 
of  keeping  the  castles  on  a  good  footing,  and  the  shoot 
ing  lodges  clean  and  attractive,  and  the  motor-car  full 
of  petrol,  and  the  horses  full  of  oats,  and  the  lawns 
empty  of  weeds,  and  the  glass  houses  full  of  fruit,  she 
had  no  money  whatsoever.  She  could  not  sell  any  of 
her  land  because  it  was  entailed — that  is,  it  really  be 
longed  to  somebody  who  didn't  exist;  she  couldn't  sell 
her  diamonds,  for  the  same  reason;  and  she  could  not 
rent  any  of  her  shootings,  because  her  ancestors  had 
not  done  so.  I  honestly  believe  that  a  sixpence  of  real 
money  looked  big  to  her. 

Her  first  name  was  the  same  as  that  of  the  Lady  of 
the  Lake — Ellen.  Her  last  name  was  McTavish — if 
she  had  been  a  man  she  would  have  been  The  Mc 
Tavish  (and  many  people  did  call  her  that) — and  her 
middle  names  were  like  the  sands  of  the  sea  in  number, 
and  sounded  like  bugles  blowing  a  charge — Campbell 
and  Cameron,  Dundee  and  Douglas.  She  had  a  fam 
ily  tartan — heather  brown,  with  Lincoln  green  tit-tat- 
toe  crisscrosses — and  she  had  learned  how  to  walk 
from  a  thousand  years  of  strong-walking  ancestors. 
She  had  her  eyes  from  the  deepest  part  of  a  deep  moor 
land  loch,  her  cheeks  from  the  briar  rose,  some  of  the 

270 


THE  McTAVISH 

notes  of  her  voice  from  the  upland  plover,  and  some 
from  the  lark.  And  her  laugh  was  like  an  echo  of  the 
sounds  that  the  River  Tay  makes  when  it  goes  among 
the  shallows. 

One  day  she  was  sitting  all  by  herself  in  the  Seventh 
Drawing  Room  (forty  feet  by  twenty-four)  of  Brig  O'- 
Dread  Castle,  looking  from  a  fourteen-foot-deep  win 
dow  embrasure,  upon  the  brig  itself,  the  river  rushing 
under  it,  and  the  clean,  flowery  town  upon  both  banks. 
From  most  of  her  houses  she  could  see  nothing  but  her 
own  possessions,  but  from  Brig  O'Dread  Castle,  stand 
ing,  as  it  did,  in  one  corner  of  her  estates,  she  could 
see  past  her  entrance  gate,  with  its  flowery,  embattled 
lodge,  a  little  into  the  outside  world.  There  were 
tourists  whirling  by  in  automobiles  along  the  Great 
North  Road,  or  parties  of  Scotch  gypsies,  with  their 
dark  faces  and  ear-rings,  with  their  wagons  and  folded 
tents,  passing  from  one  good  poaching  neighborhood 
to  the  next.  Sometimes  it  amused  her  to  see  tourists 
turned  from  her  gates  by  the  proud  porter  who  lived 
in  the  lodge;  and  on  the  present  occasion,  when  an 
automobile  stopped  in  front  of  the  gate  and  the  chauf 
feur  hopped  out  and  rang  the  bell,  she  was  prepared 
to  be  mildly  amused  once  more  in  the  same  way. 

The  proud  porter  emerged  like  a  conquering  hero 
from  the  lodge,  the  pleated  kilt  of  the  McTavish  tar 
tan  swinging  against  his  great  thighs,  his  knees  bare 

271 


THE  McTAVISH 

and  glowing  in  the  sun,  and  the  jaunty  Highland  bon 
net  low  upon  the  side  of  his  head.  He  approached  the 
gate  and  began  to  parley,  but  not  with  the  chauffeur; 
a  more  important  person  (if  possible)  had  descended 
from  the  car — a  person  of  unguessable  age,  owing  to 
automobile  goggles,  dressed  in  a  London-made  shooting 
suit  of  tweed,  and  a  cap  to  match.  The  parley  ended, 
the  stranger  appeared  to  place  something  in  the  proud 
porter's  hand;  and  the  latter  swung  upon  his  heel  and 
strode  up  the  driveway  to  the  castle.  Meanwhile  the 
stranger  remained  without  the  gate. 

Presently  word  came  to  The  McTavish,  in  the  Sev 
enth  Drawing  Room,  that  an  American  gentleman 
named  McTavish,  who  had  come  all  the  way  from 
America  for  the  purpose,  desired  to  read  the  inscrip 
tions  upon  the  McTavish  tombstones  in  the  chapel  of 
Brig  O'Dread  Castle.  The  porter,  who  brought  this 
word  himself,  being  a  privileged  character,  looked  very 
wistful  when  he  had  delivered  it — as  much  as  to  say 
that  the  frightful  itching  of  his  palm  had  not  been  as 
yet  wholly  assuaged.  The  McTavish  smiled. 

"Bring  the  gentleman  to  the  Great  Tower  door, 
McDougall,"  she  said,  "and — I  will  show  him  about, 
myself." 

The  proud  porter's  face  fell.  His  snow-white  mus- 
tachios  took  on  a  fuller  droop. 

"McDougall,"  said  The  McTavish— and  this  time 
272 


TRE  McTAVISH 

she  laughed  aloud — "if  the  gentleman  from  America 
crosses  my  hand  with  silver,  it  shall  be  yours." 

"More  like" — and  McDougall  became  gloomier  still 
— "more  like  he  will  cross  it  with  gold."  (Only  he 
said  this  in  a  kind  of  dialect  that  was  delightful  to  hear, 
difficult  to  understand,  and  would  be  insulting  to  the 
reader  to  reproduce  in  print.) 

"If  it's  gold,"  said  The  McTavish  sharply,  "I'll  not 
part  wi'  it,  McDougall,  and  you  may  lay  to  that." 

You  might  have  thought  that  McDougall  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  Black  Hole  of  Calcutta— so  sad  he 
looked,  and  so  hurt,  so  softly  he  left  the  room,  so  loudly 
he  closed  the  door. 

The  McTavish  burst  into  laughter,  and  promised 
herself,  not  without  some  compunction,  to  hand  over 
the  gold  to  McDougall,  if  any  should  materialize. 
Next  she  flew  to  her  dressing-room  and  made  herself 
look  as  much  like  a  gentlewoman's  housekeeper  as  she 
could  in  the  few  minutes  at  her  disposal.  Then  she 
danced  through  a  long,  dark  passageway,  and  whisked 
down  a  narrow  winding  stair,  and  stood  at  last  in  the 
door  of  the  Great  Tower  in  the  sunlight.  And  when 
she  heard  the  s  Danger's  feet  upon  the  gravel  she  com 
posed  her  face;  and  when  he  appeared  round  the  corner 
of  a  clipped  yew  she  rattled  the  keys  at  her  belt  and 
bustled  on  her  feet,  as  becomes  a  housekeeper,  and 
bobbed  a  courtesy. 

273 


THE  McTAVISH 

The  stranger  McTavish  was  no  more  than  thirty. 
He  had  brown  eyes,  and  wore  upon  his  face  a  steady, 
enigmatic  smile. 


II 

"Good-morning,"  said  the  American  McTavish. 
"It  is  very  kind  of  Miss  McTavish  to  let  me  go  into 
her  chapel.  Are  you  the  housekeeper?" 

"I  am,"  said  The  McTavish.  "Mrs.  Nevis  is  my 
name." 

"What  a  pity!"  murmured  the  gentleman. 

"This  way,  sir,"  said  The  McTavish. 

She  stepped  into  the  open,  and,  jangling  her  keys 
occasionally,  led  him  along  an  almost  interminable 
path  of  green  turf  bordered  by  larkspur  and  flowering 
sage,  which  ended  at  last  at  a  somewhat  battered  lead 
statue  of  Atlas,  crowning  a  pudding-shaped  mound  of 
turf. 

"When  the  Red  Currie  sacked  Brig  O'Dread  Cas 
tle,"  said  The  McTavish,  "he  dug  a  pit  here  and  flung 
the  dead  into  it.  There  will  be  McTavishes  among 
them." 

"There  are  no  inscriptions,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"Those  are  in  the  chapel,"  said  The  McTavish. 
"This  way."  And  she  swung  into  another  turf  walk, 
long,  wide,  springy,  and  bordered  by  birches. 

274 


THE  McTAVISH 

"Tell  me,"  said  the  American,  "is  it  true  that  Miss 
McTavish  is  down  on  strangers?" 

She  looked  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  He  still  wore 
his  enigmatic  smile. 

"I  don't  know  what  got  into  her,"  she  said,  "to  let 
you  in."  She  halted  in  her  tracks  and,  looking  cau 
tiously  this  way  and  that,  like  a  conspirator  in  a  play: 
"She's  a  hard  woman  to  deal  with,"  she  said,  "be 
tween  you  and  me." 

"I've  heard  something  of  the  kind,"  said  the  Ameri 
can.  "Indeed,  I  asked  the  porter.  I  said,  'What 
manner  of  woman  is  Miss  McTavish  ? '  and  he  said,  in 
a  kind  of  whisper,  'The  McTavish,  sir,  is  a  roaring, 
ranting,  stingy,  bony  female.'  " 

"He  said  that,  did  he?"  asked  the  pseudo  Mrs. 
Nevis,  tightening  her  lips  and  jangling  her  keys. 

"But  I  didn't  believe  him,"  said  the  American;  "I 
wouldn't  believe  what  he  said  of  any  cousin  of  mine." 

"Is  The  McTavish  your  cousin?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  he;  "but  just  which  one  I  don't 
know.  That's  what  I  have  come  to  find  out.  I  have 
an  idea— I  and  my  lawyers  have—that  if  The  Mc 
Tavish  died  without  a  direct  heir,  I  should  be  The 
McTavish;  that  is,  that  this  nice  castle,  and  Red  Cur 
ries  Mound,  and  all  and  all,  would  be  mine.  I  could 
come  every  August  for  the  shooting.  It  would  be 
very  nice." 

275 


THE  McTAVISH 

"It  wouldn't  be  very  nice  for  The  McTavish  to  die 
before  you,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis.  "She's  only  twenty- 
two." 

"Great  heavens!"  said  the  American.  "Between 
you,  you  made  me  think  she  was  a  horrid  old 
woman!" 

"Horrid,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis,  "very.     But  not  old." 

She  led  the  way  abruptly  to  a  turf  circle  which  ended 
the  birch  walk  and  from  which  sprang,  in  turn,  a  walk 
of  larch,  a  walk  of  Lebanon  cedars,  and  one  of  moun 
tain  ash.  At  the  end  of  the  cedar  walk,  far  off,  could 
be  seen  the  squat  gray  tower  of  the  chapel,  heavy  with 
ivy.  McTavish  caught  up  with  Mrs.  Nevis  and  walked 
at  her  side.  Their  feet  made  no  sound  upon  the  pleas 
ant,  springy  turf.  Only  the  bunch  of  keys  sounded 
occasionally. 

"How,"  said  McTavish,  not  without  insinuation, 
"could  one  get  to  know  one's  cousin?" 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis,  "if  you  are  troubled  with 
spare  cash  and  stay  in  the  neighborhood  long  enough, 
she'll  manage  that.  She  has  little  enough  to  spend, 
poor  woman.  Why,  sir,  when  she  told  me  to  show  you 
the  chapel,  she  said,  'Catherine,'  she  said,  'there's  one 
Carnegie  come  out  of  the  States— see  if  yon  McTavish 
is  not  another.' ' 

"She  said  that?" 

"She  did  so." 

276 


THE  McTAVISH 

"And  how  did  you  propose  to  go  to  work  to  find 
out,  Mrs.  Nevis?" 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "I've  hinted  broadly  at  the  news 
that's  required  at  headquarters.  I  can  do  no  more." 

McTavish  reflected.  "Tell  her,"  he  said  presently, 
"when  you  see  her,  that  I'm  not  Carnegie,  nor  near  it. 
But  tell  her  that,  as  we  Americans  say,  Tve  enough 
for  two." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis,  "that  would  mean  too 
much  or  too  little  to  a  Scot." 

"Call  it,  then,"  said  McTavish,  "several  million 
pounds." 

"Several,"  Mrs.  Nevis  reflected. 

"Say— three,"  said  McTavish. 

Mrs.  Nevis  sighed.  "And  where  did  you  gather  it 
all?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  from  my  father,"  said  McTavish.  "And  it 
was  given  to  him  by  the  government." 

"Why?  "she  asked. 

"Not  why,"  said  he,  "so  much  as  how.  You  see, 
our  government  is  passionately  fond  of  certain  people 
and  makes  them  very  rich.  But  it's  perfectly  fair, 
because  at  the  same  time  it  makes  other  people,  of 
whom  it  is  not  fond,  desperately  poor.  We  call  it  pro 
tection,"  he  said.  "For  instance,  my  government  lets 
a  man  buy  a  Shetland  wool  sweater  in  Scotland  for  two 
dollars,  and  lets  him  sell  it  on  Broadway  for  twenty 

277 


THE  McTAVISH 

dollars.  The  process  makes  that  man  rich  in  time, 
but  it's  perfectly  fair,  because  it  makes  the  man  who 
has  to  buy  the  sweater  poor." 

"But  the  fool  doesn't  have  to  buy  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Nevis. 

"Oh  yes,  he  does,"  said  McTavish;  "in  America— 
if  he  likes  the  look  of  it  and  the  feel  of  it — he  has  to 
buy.  It's  the  climate,  I  suppose." 

"Did  your  father  make  his  money  in  Shetland 
sweaters?"  she  asked. 

"Nothing  so  nice,"  said  McTavish;  "rails." 

A  covey  of  birds  rose  in  the  woods  at  their  right  with 
a  loud  whir  of  wings. 

"Whew!"  exclaimed  McTavish. 

"Baby  pheasants,"  explained  Mrs.  Nevis.  "They 
shoot  three  thousand  at  Brig  O'Dread  in  the  season." 

After  certain  difficulties,  during  which  their  hands 
touched,  the  greatest  key  in  Mrs.  Nevis's  bunch  was 
made  to  open  the  chapel  door,  and  they  went  in. 

The  place  had  no  roof;  the  flagged  floor  had  dis 
appeared,  and  it  had  been  replaced  by  velvety  turf, 
level  between  the  graves  and  headstones.  Supporting 
columns  reared  themselves  here  and  there,  supporting 
nothing.  A  sturdy  thorn  tree  grew  against  the  left- 
hand  wall;  but  the  sun  shone  brightly  into  the  ruin, 
and  sparrows  twittered  pleasantly  among  the  in-growths 
of  ivy. 

278 


THE  McTAVISH 

"Will  you  wish  to  read  all  the  inscriptions?"  asked 
Mrs.  Nevis,  doubtfully,  for  there  were  hundreds  of 
tombstones  crowding  the  turf  or  pegged  to  the 
walls. 

"No,  no,"  said  McTavish.  "I  see  what  I  came  to 
see — already." 

For  the  first  time  the  enigmatic  smile  left  his  face, 
and  she  watched  him  with  a  kind  of  excited  interest 
as  he  crossed  the  narrow  houses  of  the  dead  and 
halted  before  a  small  tablet  of  white  marble.  She 
followed  him,  more  slowly,  and  stood  presently  at  his 
side  as  he  read  aloud: 

"SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

COLLAND    McTAVISH, 
WHO    DISAPPEARED,    AGED    FIVE    YEARS, 

JUNE  15-ra,  1801." 

Immediately  below  the  inscription  a  bar  of  music 
was  engraved  in  the  marble.  "I  can't  read  that," 
said  McTavish. 

Mrs.  Nevis  hummed  a  pathetic  air  very  sweetly, 
almost  under  her  breath.  He  listened  until  she  had 
finished  and  then:  "What  tune  is  that?"  he  asked, 
excitedly. 

"  '  Wandering  Willie/  "  she  answered. 

"Of  course,"  said  he,  "it  would  be  that." 
279 


THE  McTAVISH 

"Was  this  the  stone  you  came  to  see?"  she  asked 
presently. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "Colland  McTavish,  who  disap 
peared,  was  my  great-grandfather.  The  old  gentle 
man — I  never  saw  him  myself — used  to  say  that  he 
remembered  a  long,  long  driveway,  and  a  great  iron 
gate,  and  riding  for  ever  and  ever  in  a  wagon  with  a 
tent  over  it,  and  sleeping  at  night  on  the  bare  hills  or 
in  forests  beside  streams.  And  that  was  all  he  remem 
bered,  except  being  on  a  ship  on  the  sea  for  years  and 
years.  But  he  had  this " 

McTavish  extracted  from  a  pocket  into  which  it  had 
been  buttoned  for  safety  what  appeared,  at  first  sight, 
to  be  a  linen  handkerchief  yellow  with  age.  But,  on 
unfolding,  it  proved  to  be  a  child's  shirt,  cracked  and 
broken  in  places,  and  lacking  all  but  one  of  its  bone 
buttons.  Embroidered  on  the  tiny  shirt  tail,  in  faint 
and  faded  blue,  was  the  name  Colland  McTavish. 

"He  always  thought,"  said  McTavish,  "that  the 
gypsies  stole  him.  It  looks  as  if  they  had,  doesn't  it? 
And,  just  think,  he  used  to  live  in  this  beautiful  place, 
and  play  in  it,  and  belong  to  it!  Wasn't  it  curious,  my 
seeing  that  tablet  the  first  thing  when  we  came  in  ?  It 
looked  as  big  as  a  house  and  seemed  to  beckon  me." 

"It  looks  more  like  the  ghost  of  a  little  child,"  said 
Mrs.  Nevis  quietly.  "Perhaps  that  is  why  it  drew 
you  so." 

280 


THE  McTAVISH 

"Why,"  said  he,  "has  this  chapel  been  allowed  to 
fall  to  pieces?" 

"Because,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis,  "there's  never  been 
the  money  to  mend  it." 

"I  wonder,"  he  mused,  "if  The  McTavish  would  let 
me  do  it?  After  all,  I'm  not  an  utter  stranger;  I'm  a 
distant  cousin — after  all." 

"Not  so  distant,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis,  "as  may  ap 
pear,  if  what  you  say  is  true.  Colland  McTavish,  your 
great-grandfather,  and  The  McTavish's  great-grand 
father,  were  brothers — and  the  poor  bereft  mother  that 
put  up  this  tablet  was  your  great-great-grandmother, 
and  hers." 

"Surely  then,"  said  he,  "The  McTavish  would  let 
me  put  a  roof  on  the  chapel.  I'd  like  to,"  he  said,  and 
the  red  came  strongly  into  his  cheeks.  "I'll  ask  her. 
Surely  she  wouldn't  refuse  to  see  me  on  such  a  matter." 

"You  can  never  tell,"  Mrs.  Nevis  said.  "She's  a 
woman  that  won't  bear  forcing." 

He  looked  at  her  for  the  first  time  in  some  minutes. 
"Why,"  said  he,  "you're  ill;  you're  white  as  a  sheet!" 

"It's  the  long  walk 'uphill.  It  takes  me  in  the  heart, 
somehow." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  McTavish  simply.  "I'm  mighty 
sorry.  It's  all  my  fault." 

"Why,  so  it  is,"  said  she,  with  the  flicker  of  a 
smile. 

281 


THE  McTAVISH 

"You  must  take  my  arm  going  back.     I  am  sorry." 

When  they  had  left  the  chapel  and  locked  the  door, 
she  took  his  arm  without  any  further  invitation. 

"  I  will,  if  you  don't  mind,"  she  said.  "  I  am  shaken, 
and  that's  the  truth.  .  .  .  But  what,"  and  again  the 
smile  flickered — "what  would  The  McTavish  say  if  she 
saw  us— her  cousin  and  her  housekeeper— dawdling 
along  arm  in  arm?" 

McTavish  laughed.     "I  don't  mind,  if  you  don't." 

They  returned  slowly  by  the  long  turf  walk  to  the 
statue  of  Atlas. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "how  should  I  go  about  getting  an 
interview  with  The  McTavish?" 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis,  "it  will  not  be  for  to-day. 
She  is  leaving  within  the  hour  for  Beem-Tay  in  her 
motor-car." 

"Oh,  then  I  shall  follow  her  to  Beem-Tay." 

"If  you  can  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis,  "I  will  give 
you  a  line  to  my  sister.  Maybe  she  could  help  you. 
She's  the  housekeeper  at  Beem-Tay— Miss  MacNish 
is  her  name."  And  she  added  as  if  by  an  after- thought. 
"We  are  twins." 

"Are  there  two  of  you?"  exclaimed  McTavish. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  with  a  guileless  face. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "it's  wonderful.  Does  she  look 
like  you?" 

"  Exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Nevis.  "  Same  red  hair,  same 
282 


THE  McTAVISH 

eyes,  nose,  and  faint  spells — only,"  and  there  was  a 
certain  arch  quality  in  her  clear  voice,  "she's  single." 

"And  she  looks  exactly  like  you— -and  she's  single! 
I  don't  believe  it." 

Mrs.  Nevis  withdrew  her  hand  from  his  arm.  When 
they  had  reached  the  door  of  the  Great  Tower  she 
stopped. 

"If  you  care  for  a  line  to  my  sister,"  she  said,  "I'll 
write  it.  You  can  wait  here." 

"I  wish  it  of  all  things,  and  if  there  are  any  stairs  to 
climb,  mind  you  take  your  time.  Remember  you're 
not  very  good  at  hills." 

When  she  had  gone,  he  smiled  his  enigmatic  smile 
and  began  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
door,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back.  Once  he 
made  a  remark.  "Scotland,"  he  said,  "is  the  place 
for  me." 

But  when  at  length  she  returned  with  the  letter,  he 
did  not  offer  her  money;  instead  he  offered  his  hand. 
"You've  been  very  kind,"  he  said,  "and  when  I  meet 
your  mistress  I  will  tell  her  how  very  courteous  you 
have  been.  Thank  you." 

He  placed  the  letter  in  the  breast-pocket  of  his 
shooting-coat.  "Any  messages  for  your  sister?"  he 
asked. 

"You  may  tell  her  I  hope  she  is  putting  by  some 
thing  for  a  rainy  day.  You  may  tell  her  The  Mc- 

283 


THE  McTAVISH 

Tavish  is  verra  hard  up  the  noo" — she  smiled  very 
charmingly  in  his  face — "and  will  na'  brook  an  extrava 
gant  table." 

"Do  you  think,"  said  McTavish,  "that  your  sister 
will  get  me  a  chance  to  see  The  McTavish?" 

"  If  any  one  can,  she  can." 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  and  once  more  they  shook 
hands. 

A  few  minutes  later  she  heard  the  distant  purring  of 
his  car,  and  a  thought  struck  her  with  dismay.  "  What 
if  he  goes  straight  to  Beem-Tay  and  presents  the  letter 
before  I  get  there!" 

She  flowered  into  swift  action,  flashed  up  the  turret 
stairs,  and,  having  violently  rung  a  bell,  flew  into  her 
dressing-room,  and  began  to  drag  various  automobil- 
ing  coats,  hats,  and  goggles  out  of  their  hiding  places. 
When  the  bell  was  answered:  "The  car,"  she  cried, 
"at  once!" 

A  few  moments  later,  veiled,  goggled,  and  coated, 
she  was  dashing  from  the  castle  to  the  stables.  Half 
way  she  met  the  car.  "McDonald,"  she  cried,  "can 
you  make  Beem-Tay  in  the  hour?" 

"It's  fifty  miles,"  said  the  driver,  doubtfully. 

"Can  you  make  it?" 

"The  road — "  he  began. 

"I  know  the  road,"  she  said  impatiently;  "it's  all 
twisty-wisty.  Can  you  make  it?" 

284 


THE  McTAVISH 

"I'm  a  married  man,"  said  he. 

"Ten  pounds  sterling  if  you  make  it." 

"And  if  we  smash  and  are  kilt?" 

"Why,  there'll  be  a  more  generous  master  than  I  in 
Beem-Tay  and  in  Brig  O 'Dread— that's  all." 

She  leaped  into  the  car,  and  a  minute  later  they  were 
flying  along  the  narrow,  tortuous  North  Road  like  a 
nightmare.  Once  she  leaned  over  the  driver's  seat 
and  spoke  in  his  ear:  "I  hav'na  the  ten  pounds  noo," 
she  said,  "but  I'll  beg  them,  McDonald,  or  borrow 
them — "  The  car  began  to  slow  down,  the  driver's 
face  grew  gloomy.  "Or  steal  them!"  she  cried.  Mc 
Donald's  face  brightened,  for  The  McTavish's  money 
difficulties  were  no  better  known  than  the  fact  that  she 
was  a  woman  of  her  word.  He  opened  the  throttle  and 
the  car  once  more  shot  dizzily  forward. 

Twenty  miles  out  of  Brig  O'Dread  they  came  upon 
another  car,  bound  in  the  same  direction  and  also  run 
ning  desperately  fast.  They  passed  it  in  a  roaring 
smother  of  dust. 

"McDonald,"  said  The  McTavish,  "you  needna 
run  sae  fast  noo.  Keep  the  lead  o'  yon  car  to  Beem- 
Tay  gate— that  is  all." 

She  sank  back  luxuriously,  sighed,  and  began  to 
wonder  how  she  should  find  McDonald  his  ten  pounds 
sterling. 


285 


THE  McTAVISH 

III 

She  need  not  have  hurried,  nor  thrown  to  the  wind 
those  ten  pounds  that  she  had  somehow  to  raise.  On 
arriving  at  Beem-Tay  she  had  given  orders  that  any  note 
addressed  to  Miss  MacNish,  and  presented  at  the  gate, 
should  be  brought  at  once  to  her.  McTavish  did  not 
come  that  day,  but  she  learned  indirectly  that  he  had 
taken  rooms  at  the  McTavish  Arms  in  Beem-Tay  vil 
lage,  and  from  Mr.  Traquair,  manager  of  the  local 
branch  of  the  Bank  of  Scotland,  that  he  was  taking 
steps  to  hire  for  the  season  the  forest  of  Clackmanness, 
a  splendid  sporting  estate  that  marched  with  her  own 
lands.  Mr.  Traquair,  a  gentleman  as  thin  as  a  pipe 
stem,  and  as  kind  as  tobacco,  had  called  upon  her  the 
second  day,  in  answer  to  an  impetuous  summons.  He 
found  her  looking  very  anxious  and  very  beautiful,  and 
told  her  so. 

"May  the  looks  stand  me  in  good  stead,  Mr.  Tra 
quair,"  said  she,  "for  I'm  like  to  become  Wandering 
Willie  of  the  song — Wandering  Wilhelmina,  rather. 
There's  a  man  yont,  named  McTavish,  will  oost  me 
frae  hoose  and  name." 

"That  would  be  the  young  gentleman  stopping  at 
the  McTavish  Arms." 

"Ah,"  said  The  McTavish,  "he  might  stop  here  if 
he  but  knew." 

286 


THE  McTAVISH 

"He's  no  intending  it,  then,"  said  Mr.  Traquair, 
"for  he  called  upon  me  this  morning  to  hire  the  Duke's 
forest  of  Clackmanness." 

"Ah!"  said  The  McTavish. 

"And  now,"  said  Mr.  Traquair,  stroking  his  white 
mustache,  "tell  me  what  it  all  means." 

"It  means  that  Colland  McTavish,  who  was  my 
great-grandfather's  elder  brother,  has  returned  in  the 
person  of  the  young  gentleman  at  the  Arms." 

"A  fine  hornpipe  he'll  have  to  prove  it,"  said  Mr. 
Traquair. 

"Fine  fiddlesticks!"  said  The  McTavish.  "Man," 
she  continued  earnestly,  "you  have  looked  in  his  face 
and  you  tell  me  it  will  be  a  dance  to  prove  him  The 
McTavish?" 

"He  is  a  McTavish,"  admitted  Mr.  Traquair;  "so 
much  I  knew  before  he  told  me  his  name." 

"He  has  in  his  pocket  the  bit  shirt  that  wee  Colland 
wore  when  the  gypsies  snitched  him  and  carried  him 
over  seas;  it's  all  of  a  piece  with  many  another  garment 
of  wee  (Holland's.  I've  had  out  the  trunk  in  which  his 
little  duds  have  been  stored  these  many  years.  The 
man  is  Gotland's  great-grandson.  I  look  at  him,  and 
I  admit  it  without  proof." 

"My  dear,"  said  Mr.  Traquair,  "you  have  no  com 
prehension  of  the  law.  I  will  fight  this  claim  through 
every  court  of  the  land,  or  I'm  ready  to  meet  him  on 

287 


THE  McTAVISH 

Bannockburn  field,  my  ancestral  claymore  against  his. 
A  rare  laugh  we'll  have  when  the  pretender  produces 
his  bit  shirtie  in  the  court,  and  says,  'Look,  your  honor, 
upon  my  patent  o'  nobilitee.' ' 

"Mind  this,"  said  The  McTavish,  "I'll  make  no 
contests,  nor  have  none  made.  Only,"  she  smiled 
faintly,  "I  hav'na  told  him  who  he  rightly  is.  He 
claims  cousinship.  But  it  has  not  dawned  on  him  that 
Colland  was  to  have  been  The  McTavish,  that  he  is 
The  McTavish,  that  I  am  merely  Miss  Ellen  Alice 
Douglas  Cameron  Dundee  Campbell  McGregor  Bread- 
albane  Blair  McTavish,  houseless,  homeless  spinster, 
wi'  but  a  drap  o'  gude  blood  to  her  heritage.  I  have 
not  told  him,  Mr.  Traquair.  He  does  not  know. 
What's  to  be  done?  What  would  you  do — if  you 
knew  that  he  was  he,  and  that  you  were  only  you?" 

"It's  your  meeserable  conscience  of  a  Church-going 
Scot,"  commiserated  Traquair,  not  without  indigna 
tion.  "What  would  a  Campbell  have  done?  He'd 
have  had  himself  made  a  judge  in  the  land,  and  he'd 
have  condemned  the  pretender  to  the  gallows — out  of 
hand,  my  dear — out  of  hand!" 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  as  at  a  naughty  child. 
"Where  is  your  own  meeserable  conscience,  Tra 
quair?" 

"My  dear,"  cried  the  little  man,  "it  is  storming  my 

288 


THE  McTAVISH 

"There,"  said  she,  "I  told  you  so.  And  now  we  are 
both  of  one  mind,  you  shall  present  these  tidings  to 
McTavish  together  with  my  compliments." 

"First,"  said  Traquair  cautiously,  "I'll  bide  a  bit  on 
the  thought." 

"  I  will  leave  the  time  to  your  meeserable  conscience," 
said  Miss  McTavish  generously.  "Meanwhile,  my 
dear  man,  while  the  semblance  of  prosperity  abides 
over  my  head  in  the  shape  of  a  roof,  there's  a  matter 
o'  ten  pound " 

Mr.  Traquair  rose  briskly  to  his  feet.  " Ten  pound! " 
he  exclaimed. 

"Only  ten  pound,"  she  wheedled. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  don't  see  where  you're  to 
raise  another  matter  o'  saxpence  this  month." 

"But  I've  promised  the  ten  pound  on  my  honor," 
she  said.  "Would  you  have  me  break  my  word  to  a 
servant?" 

"Well— well,"  temporized  Mr.  Traquair,  "I'll  have 
another  look  at  the  books.  Mind,  I'm  not  saying  it 
can  be  done — unless  you'll  sell  a  bit  timber  here  and 
yont " 

"Dear  man,"  she  said,  "full  well  ye  know  it's  not 
mine  to  sell.  Then  you're  to  let  me  have  the  ten 
pound?" 

"If  I  were  to  employ  a  wheedler,"  said  Mr.  Tra 
quair,  "I'd  have  no  choice  'twixt  you  and  Satan. 

289 


THE  McTAVISH 

Mind,  I  make  no  promises.     Ten  pound  is  a  prodee- 
gious  sum  o'  money,  when  ye  hav'na  got  it." 

"Not  later  than  to-morrow,  then,"  said  Miss  Mc- 
Tavish,  as  though  to  cap  a  promise  that  had  been 
made  to  her.  "I'm  obliged  to  you,  Traquair,  deeply 
obliged." 


IV 

•  •  •  • 

But  it  was  not  the  matter  of  the  ten  pounds  that 
worried  Traquair  as  he  climbed  into  his  pony  cart  and 
drove  slowly  through  the  castle  policies  to  the  gate. 
Indeed,  the  lofty  gates  had  not  been  closed  behind  him 
before  he  had  forgotten  all  about  them.  That  The 
McTavish  was  not  The  McTavish  alone  occupied  his 
attention.  And  when  he  perceived  the  cause  of  the 
trouble,  strolling  beside  the  lofty  ring  fence  of  stone 
that  shielded  the  castle  policies  from  impertinent  curi 
osity,  it  was  in  anything  but  his  usual  cheerful  voice 
that  he  hailed  him. 

"Will  you  take  a  lift,  Mr.  McTavish?"  he  invited 
dismally. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  The  McTavish,  "I  won't  trouble 
you,  thanks." 

Traquair's  meeserable  conscience  got  the  better  of 
him  all  at  once.  And  with  that  his  cheerfulness 
returned. 

290 


THE  McTAVISH 

"Get  in,"  he  said.  "You  cannot  help  troubling 
me,  Mr.  McTavish.  I've  a  word  for  you,  sir." 

McTavish,  wondering,  climbed  into  the  car. 

"Fergus,"  said  Traquair  to  the  small  boy  who  acted 
as  groom,  messenger,  and  shoe  polisher  to  the  local 
branch  of  the  Bank  of  Scotland,  "ye'll  walk." 

When  the  two  were  thus  isolated  from  prying  ears, 
Mr.  Traquair  cleared  his  throat  and  spoke.  'Is  there 
anything,  Mr.  McTavish,"  he  said,  "in  this  world  that 
a  rich  man  like  you  may  want?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  McTavish,  "some  things." 

"More  wealth?" 

McTavish  shook  his  head. 

"Houses — lands?"  Traquair  looked  up  shrewdly 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  but  McTavish  shook  his 
head  again. 

"Power,  then,  Mr.  McTavish?" 

"No — not  power." 

"Glory?" 

"No,"  said  McTavish;  "I'm  sorry,  but  I'm  afraid 
not." 

"Then,  sir,"  said  Traquair,  "it's  a  woman." 

"No,"  said  McTavish,  and  he  blushed  handsomely. 
"It's  the  woman." 

"I  withdraw  my  insinuation,"  said  Traquair  gravely. 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  McTavish. 

"I  am  glad,  sir,"  said  Traquair  presently,  "to  find 
291 


THE  McTAVISH 

you  in  so  generous  a  disposition,  for  we  have  need  of 
your  generosity.  I  have  it  from  Miss  McTavish  her 
self,"  he  went  on  gravely,  "that  your  ancestor,  so  far 
as  you  know,  was  Colland  McTavish." 

"So  far  as  I  know  and  believe,"  said  McTavish, 
"he  was." 

"Did  you  know  that  Colland  McTavish  should  have 
been  The  McTavish?"  asked  Mr.  Traquair. 

"  It  never  entered  my  head.     Was  he  the  oldest  son  ?  " 

"He  was,"  said  Mr.  Traquair  solemnly,  "until  in 
the  eyes  of  the  law  he  ceased  to  exist." 

"Then,"  said  McTavish,  "in  every  eye  save  that  of 
the  law  I  am  The  McTavish." 

Mr.  Traquair  bowed.  "Miss  McTavish,"  he  said, 
"was  for  telling  you  at  once;  but  she  left  the  matter 
entirely  to  my  discretion.  I  have  thought  best  to  tell 
you." 

"Would  the  law,"  asked  McTavish,  "oust  Miss  Mc 
Tavish  and  stand  me  in  her  shoes?" 

"The  law,"  said  Traquair  pointedly,  "would  not  do 
the  former,  and,"  with  a  glance  at  McTavish's  feet, 
"the  Auld  Nick  could  not  do  the  latter." 

McTavish  laughed .  ' '  Then  why  have  you  told  me  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"Because,"  said  Traquair  grandly,  "it  is  Miss  Mc 
Tavish's  resolution  to  make  no  opposition  to  your 
claim." 

292 


THE  McTAVISH 

"I  see;   I  am  to  become  'The'  without  a  fight." 

"Precisely,"  said  Traquair. 

"Well,  discretionary  powers  as  to  informing  me  of 
this  were  given  you,  as  I  understand,  Mr.  Traquair?" 

"They  were,"  said  Traquair. 

"Well,"  said  McTavish  again,  "there's  no  use  cry 
ing  over  spilt  milk.  But  is  your  conscience  up  to  a 
heavy  load?" 

"  'Tis  a  meeserable  vehicle  at  best,"  protested  Tra 
quair. 

"You  must  pretend,"  said  McTavish,  "that  you 
have  not  yet  told  me." 

"Ah!"  Traquair  exclaimed.  "You  wish  to  think 
it  over." 

"I  do,"  said  McTavish. 

Both  were  silent  for  some  moments.  Then  Traquair 
said  rather  solemnly:  "You  are  young,  Mr.  McTavish, 
but  I  have  hopes  that  your  thinking  will  be  of  a  wise 
and  courageous  nature." 

"Do  you  read  Tennyson?"  asked  McTavish,  apro 
pos  of  nothing. 

"No,"  said  Traquair,  slightly  nettled.     "Burns." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  McTavish  simply;  "then  you 
don't  know  the  lines: 

"  '  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,'  said  he,  'the  lawful  heir/  etc. 
do  you?" 

293 


THE  McTAVISH 

"No,"  said  Traquair,  "I  do  not." 

"It  is  curious  how  often  a  lack  of  literary  affinity 
comes  between  two  persons  and  a  heart-to-heart  talk." 

"Let  me  know,"  said  Traquair,  "when  you  have 
thought  it  over." 

"I  will.     And  now  if  you  will  put  me  down ?" 

He  leaped  to  the  ground,  lifted  his  hat  to  the  older 
man,  and,  turning,  strode  very  swiftly,  as  if  to  make 
up  for  lost  time,  back  toward  the  castle  gate. 


McTavish  was  kept  waiting  a  long  time  while  a 
servant  took  his  letter  of  introduction  to  Miss  Mac- 
Nish,  and  brought  back  an  answer  from  the  castle. 

Finally,  midway  of  a  winding  and  shrubby  short 
cut,  into  which  he  turned  as  directed  by  the  porter,  he 
came  suddenly  upon  her. 

"Miss  MacNish— ?"  he  said. 

"You're  not  Mr.  McTavish! — "  She  seemed  dum- 
founded,  and  glanced  at  a  letter  which  she  carried  open 
in  her  hand.  "  My  sister  writes " 

"What  does  she  write?"  asked  McTavish  eagerly. 

"No — no!"  Miss  MacNish  exclaimed  hastily,  "the 
letter  was  to  me."  She  tore  it  hastily  into  little  pieces. 

"Miss  MacNish,"  said  McTavish,  somewhat  hurt, 
"it  is  evident  that  I  give  diametrically  opposed  im- 

294 


THE  McTAVISH 

pressions  to  you  and  your  sister.  Either  she  has  said 
something  nice  about  me,  and  you,  seeing  me,  are 
astonished  that  she  should;  or  she  has  said  something 
horrid  about  me — I  do  hope  it's  that  way — and  you 
are  even  more  surprised.  It  must  be  one  thing  or  the 
other.  And  before  we  shake  hands  I  think  it  only 
proper  for  you  to  tell  me  which." 

"Let  bygones  be  bygones,"  said  Miss  MacNish,  and 
she  held  out  her  hand.  McTavish  took  it,  and  smiled 
his  enigmatic  smile. 

"It  is  your  special  wish,  I  have  gathered,"  said  Miss 
MacNish,  "to  meet  The  McTavish.  Now  she  knows 
about  your  being  in  the  neighborhood,  knows  that  you 
are  a  distant  cousin,  but  she  hasn't  expressed  any  wish 
to  meet  you — at  least  I  haven't  heard  her.  If  she 
wishes  to  meet  you,  she  will  ask  you  to  call  upon  her. 
If  she  doesn't  wish  to,  she  won't.  Of  course,  if  you 
came  upon  her  suddenly — somewhere  in  the  grounds, 
for  instance — she'd  have  to  listen  to  what  you  had  to 
say,  and  to  answer  you,  I  suppose.  But  to-day — well 
I'd  not  try  it  to-day." 

"Why  not?"  asked  McTavish. 

"Why,"  said  Miss  MacNish,  "she  caught  cold  in 
the  car  yesterday,  and  her  poor  nose  is  much  too  red 
for  company." 

"Why  do  you  all  try  to  make  her  out  such  a  bad 
lot?" 

295 


THE  McTAVISH 

"Is  it  being  a  bad  lot  to  have  a  red  nose?"  exclaimed 
Miss  MacNish. 

"At  twenty-two?"  McTavish  looked  at  her  in  sur 
prise  and  horror.  "I  ask  you"  he  said.  "There  was 
the  porter  at  Brig  O'Dread,  and  your  sister — they  gave 
her  a  pair  of  black  eyes  between  them,  and  here  you 
give  her  a  red  nose.  When  the  truth  is  probably  the 
reverse." 

"I  don't  know  the  reverse  of  red,"  said  Miss  Mac 
Nish,  "but  that  would  give  her  white  eyes." 

"I  am  sure,  Miss  MacNish,  that  quibbling  is  not  one 
of  your  prerogatives.  It  belongs  exclusively  to  the 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Representatives.  As  for  me 
— the  less  I  see  of  The  McTavish,  the  surer  I  am  that 
she  is  rather  beautiful,  and  very  amusing,  and  good." 

"Are  these  the  matters  on  which  you  are  so  eager  to 
meet  her?"  asked  Miss  MacNish.  She  stood  with 
her  back  to  a  clump  of  dark  blue  larkspur  taller  than 
herself — a  lovely  picture,  in  her  severe  black  house 
keeper's  dress  that  by  contrast  made  her  face  and  dark 
red  hair  all  the  more  vivacious  and  flowery.  Her 
eyes  at  the  moment  were  just  the  color  of  the  larkspur. 

McTavish  smiled  his  enigmatic  smile.  "They  are," 
he  said. 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Miss  MacNish. 

"When  I  meet  her — "  McTavish  began,  and 
abruptly  paused. 

296 


THE  McTAVISH 

•  • 

"What?"  Miss  MacNish  asked  with  some  eagerness. 

"Oh,  nothing;  Tm  so  full  of  it  that  I  almost  betrayed 
my  own  confidence." 

"I  hope  that  you  aren't  implying  that  I  might  prove 
indiscreet." 

"Oh,  dear  no!"  said  McTavish. 

"It  had  a  look  of  it,  then,"  said  Miss  MacNish  tartly. 

"Oh,"  said  McTavish,  "if  I've  hurt  your  feelings- 
why,  I'll  go  on  with  what  I  began,  and  take  the  conse 
quences,  shall  I?" 

"I  think,"  said  Miss  MacNish  primly,  "that  it 
would  tend  to  restore  confidence  between  us." 

"When  I  meet  her,  then,"  said  McTavish,  "I  shall 
first  tell  her  that  she  is  beautiful,  and  amusing,  and 
good.  And  then,"  it  came  from  him  in  a  kind  of 
eager,  boyish  outburst,  "I  shall  ask  her  to  marry 
me." 

Miss  MacNish  gasped  and  stepped  backward  into 
the  fine  and  deep  soil  that  gave  the  larkspur  its  inches. 
The  color  left  her  cheeks  and  returned  upon  the  instant 
tenfold.  And  it  was  many  moments  before  she  could 
find  a  word  to  speak.  Then  she  said  in  an  injured  and 
astonished  tone:  "Why?" 

"The  Scotch  Scot,"  said  McTavish,  "is  shrewd,  but 
cautious.  The  American  Scot  is  shrewd,  but  daring. 
Caution,  you'll  admit,  is  a  pitiful  measure  in  an  affair 
of  the  heart." 

297 


THE  McTAVISH 

Miss  MacNish  was  by  this  time  somewhat  recovered 
from  her  consternation.  "Well,"  said  she,  "what 
then?  When  you  have  come  upon  The  McTavish 
unawares  somewhere  in  the  shrubbery,  and  asked  her 
to  marry  you,  and  she  has  boxed  your  ears  for  you — 
what  then?" 

"Then,"  said  McTavish  with  a  kind  of  anticipatory 
expression  of  pleasure,  "I  shall  kiss  her.  Even  if  she 
hated  it,"  he  said  ruefully,  "she  couldn't  help  but  be 
surprised  and  flattered." 

Miss  MacNish  took  a  step  forward  with  a  sudden 
hilarious  brightening  in  her  eyes.  "Are  you  quizzing 
me,"  she  said,  "or  are  you  outlining  your  honest  and 
mad  intentions?  And  if  the  latter,  won't  you  tell  me 
why?  Why,  in  heaven's  name,  should  you  ask  The 
McTavish  to  marry  you — at  first  sight?" 

"I  can't  explain  it,"  said  McTavish.  "But  even  if 
I  never  have  seen  her — I  love  her." 

"I  have  heard  of  love  at  first  sight — "  began  Miss 
MacNish. 

But  he  interrupted  eagerly.  "You  haven't  ever  ex 
perienced  it,  have  you?" 

"Of  course,  I  haven't,"  she  exclaimed  indignantly. 
"I've  heard  of  it — often.  But  I  have  never  heard  of 
love  without  any  sight  at  all." 

"Love  is  blind,"  said  McTavish. 

"Now,  who's  quibbling?" 
298 


THE  McTAVISH 

"Just  because,"  he  said,  "you've  never  heard  of  a 
thing,  away  off  here  in  your  wild  Highlands,  is  a  mighty 
poor  proof  that  it  doesn't  exist.  I  suppose  you  don't 
believe  in  predestination.  Fve  always  known,"  he  said 
grandly,  "  that  I  should  marry  my  cousin — even  against 
her  will  and  better  judgment.  You  don't  more  than 
half  believe  me,  do  you?" 

"Well,  not  more  than  half,"  Miss  MacNish  smiled. 

"It's  the  truth,"  he  said;  "I  will  bet  you  ten  pounds 
it's  the  truth." 

Miss  MacNish  looked  at  him  indignantly,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  look  she  sighed.  "I  don't  bet,"  said  she. 

McTavish  lowered  his  glance  until  it  rested  upon  his 
own  highly  polished  brown  boots. 

"Why  are  you  looking  at  your  boots?"  asked  Miss 
MacNish. 

"Because,"  he  said  simply,  "considering  that  I  am 
in  love  with  my  cousin,  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  look 
at  you  any  more.  I'm  afraid  I  got  the  habit  by  look 
ing  at  your  sister;  but  then,  as  she  has  a  husband,  it 
couldn't  matter  so  much." 

Miss  MacNish,  I'm  afraid,  mantled  with  pleasure. 
"My  sister  said  something  in  her  letter  about  your  wish 
ing  to  see  the  house  of  your  ancestors.  Miss  Mc 
Tavish  is  out  now — would  you  like  to  look  about  a 
little?" 

"Dearly,"  said  McTavish. 
299 


THE  McTAVISH 

VI 

Miss  McTavish  sent  for  Mr.  Traquair.  He  went 
to  her  with  a  heavy  conscience,  for  as  yet  he  had 
done  nothing  toward  raising  the  ten  pounds.  At 
her  first  words  his  conscience  became  still  more 
laden. 

"Traquair,"  she  said,  "you  mustn't  tell  him  yet." 

It  was  all  Traquair  could  do  to  keep  countenance. 
"Then  it's  fortunate  I  haven't,"  said  he,  "for  you  gave 
me  a  free  hand." 

"Consider  it  tied  behind  your  back  for  the  present, 
for  a  wonderful  thing  is  going  to  happen." 

"Indeed,"  said  Traquair. 

"You  wouldn't  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  the 
silly  man  is  going  to  fall  in  love  with  me,  and  ask  me  to 
marry  him!" 

"Although  you  haven't  offered  me  a  chair,  my  dear," 
said  Traquair,  "I  will  take  one." 

All  in  a  burst  then,  half  laughing,  half  in  a  grave  kind 
of  excitement,  she  told  her  old  friend  how  she  had 
played  housekeeper  first  at  Brig  O 'Dread  and  later  at 
Beem-Tay.  And  how,  on  the  latter  occasion,  Mc 
Tavish  had  displayed  his  admiration  so  openly  that 
there  could  be  but  the  one  climax. 

"And  after  all,"  she  concluded,  "if  he  thinks  I'm 
just  a  housekeeper,  and  falls  in  love  with  me  and  asks 

300 


THE  McTAVISH 

me  to  marry  him — I'd  know  the  man  was  sincere — 
wouldn't  I,  Traquair?" 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Traquair,  "that  I  have  never 
seen  you  so  thoroughly  delighted  with  yourself." 

"That  is  unkind.  It  is  a  wonderful  thing  when  a 
girl  of  position,  and  hedged  in  as  I  have  been,  finds 
that  she  is  loved  for  herself  alone  and  not  for  her  houses 
and  lands,  and  her  almost  royal  debts." 

"Verra  flattering,"  said  Traquair,  "na  doot.  And 
what  answer  will  you  give?" 

"Traquair,"  she  said,  "I'm  not  a  profane  girl;  but 
I'm  hanged  if  I  know." 

"He  is  a  very  wealthy  man,  and  I  have  no  doubt  a 
very  kind  and  honest  man." 

"He  is  a  very  cheeky  man,"  smiled  Miss  McTavish. 

"No  doubt — no  doubt,"  said  Traquair;  "and  it 
would  leave  you  to  the  honest  enjoyment  of  your 
houses  and  lands,  which  otherwise  you  propose  to 
hand  over  to  him.  Still,  it  is  well  for  a  Scot  to  be 
cautious." 

"For  a  Scotch  Scot,"  said  Miss  McTavish.  "I 
should  be  an  American  Scot  if  I  married  him.  He 
tells  me  they  are  noted  for  their  daring." 

While  they  were  thus  animatedly  conversing,  word 
came  that  Mr.  McTavish  had  called  in  the  hope  of 
seeing  Miss  MacNish. 

"There,"  said  Miss  McTavish,  "you  see!  Go  down 
301 


THE  McTAVISH 

to  him,  Traquair,  and  be  pleasant,  until  I  come.  Then 
vanish." 

Traquair  found  McTavish  smoking  a  thick  London 
cigarette  upon  the  steps  of  the  side  entrance,  and  gazing 
happily  into  a  little  garden  of  dark  yew  and  vivid  scar 
let  geraniums  with  daring  edgings  of  brightest  blue 
lobelia. 

"Will  you  be  making  any  changes,"  asked  Traquair, 
"when  you  come  into  your  own?" 

McTavish  looked  up  with  a  smile  and  handed  his 
open  cigarette  case  to  the  older  man. 

"Mr.  Traquair,"  he  said,  "I'm  young  and  a  stranger. 
I  wish  you  could  find  it  in  your  heart  to  be  an  uncle  to 
me." 

Traquair  accepted  a  cigarette  and  sat  down,  first 
assuring  himself  that  the  stone  steps  were  dry. 

"If  I  were  your  nephew,"  said  McTavish,  "and 
came  to  you  all  out  of  breath,  and  told  you  that  I  wished 
to  marry  Miss  McTavish's  housekeeper,  what  would 
you  say?" 

"I  would  say,"  said  Traquair,  "that  she  was  the 
daughter  of  a  grand  family  that  had  fallen  from  their 
high  estate.  I  would  say, '  Charge,  nephew,  charge !'  ' 

"Do  you  mean  it!"  exclaimed  McTavish. 

"There's  no  more  lovely  lass  in  the  United  King 
dom,"  said  Traquair,  "than  Miss—  Miss " 

"MacNish,"  McTavish  helped  him;  "and  she 
302 


.    THE  McTAVISH 

would  be  mistress  where  she  had  been  servant.     That's 
a  curious  twist  of  fate." 

"You  have  made  up  your  mind,  then,"  said  Tra- 
quair,  "to  claim  your  own?" 

"By  no  means — yet,"  said  McTavish.  "I  was  only 
speculating.  It's  all  in  the  air.  Suppose  uncle,  that 
Miss  MacNish  throws  me  down!" 

"Throws  you  down!"  Traquair  was  shocked. 

"Well,"  said  McTavish  humbly,  "you  told  me  to 
charge." 

"To  charge,"  said  Traquair  testily,  "but  not  to 
grapple." 

"In  my  country,"  said  McTavish,  "when  a  girl 
refuses  to  marry  a  man  they  call  it  throwing  him  down, 
giving  him  the  sack,  or  handing  him  a  lemon." 

"Yours  is  an  exceptional  country,"  said  Traquair. 

Miss  MacNish  appeared  in  the  doorway  behind 
them.  "I'm  sorry  to  have  been  so  long,"  she  said; 
"I  had  to  give  out  the  linen  for  luncheon." 

McTavish  flung  away  his  cigarette,  and  sprang  to 
his  feet  as  if  some  one  had  stuck  a  pin  into  him. 
Traquair,  according  to  the  schedule,  vanished. 

"It  seemed  very,  very  long,"  said  McTavish. 

"Miss  McTavish,"  said  Miss  MacNish,  "has  con 
sented  to  see  you." 

"Good  Heavens!— when?" 

"Now." 

303 


THE  McTAVISH 

"But  I  don't  want  to  see  her  now." 

"But  you  told  me" — Miss  MacNish  looked  thor 
oughly  puzzled — "you  told  me  just  what  you  were 
going  to  say  to  her.  You  said  it  was  all  predestined." 

"Miss  MacNish,  it  was  not  Miss  McTavish  I  was 
thinking  of — I'm  sure  it  wasn't.  It  was  you." 

"Are  you  proposing  to  me?"  she  asked. 

"Of  course,  I  am.  Come  into  the  garden — I  can't 
talk  on  these  steps,  right  on  top  of  a  gravel  walk  with 
a  distant  vista  of  three  gardeners  and  a  cartful  of  sand." 

"I  must  say,"  said  Miss  MacNish,  "that  this  is  the 
suddenest  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me." 

"But  you  said  you  believed  in  love  at  first  sight," 
McTavish  explained.  "You  knew  yesterday  what  had 
happened  to  me — don't  say  you  didn't,  because  I  saw 
you  smiling  to  yourself.  You  might  come  into  the 
garden  and  let  me  say  my  say." 

She  didn't  budge. 

"Very  well  then.  I  will  make  a  scene — right  here 
— a  terrible  scene."  He  caught  her  two  hands  in  his, 
and  drew  her  toward  him  so  that  the  keys  at  her  belt 
jangled  and  clashed. 

"This  is  preposterous!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Not  so  preposterous  as  you  think.  But  what's  your 
first  name?" 

"I  think  I  haven't  any  at  the  moment." 

"Don't  be  ridiculous.     There— there " 

304 


THE  McTAVISH 

She  tore  her  hands  from  him  and  struck  at  him  wildly. 
But  he  ducked  like  a  trained  boxer. 

"With  everybody  looking!"  she  cried,  crimson  with 
mortification. 

"  I  had  a  cable,"  he  said, "  calling  me  back  to  America. 
That  is  why  I  have  to  hurry  over  the  preliminaries." 

"The  preliminaries,"  she  cried,  almost  in  tears. 
"Do  you  know  who  I  am  that  you  treat  me  like  a  bar 
maid?" 

"Ladies,"  said  McTavish,  "who  masquerade  as 
housekeepers  ought  to  know  what  to  expect."  j 

Her  face  was  a  blank  of  astonishment.  "Traquair 
told,"  she  said  indignantly.  "Wait  till  I " 

"No,"  said  McTavish;  "the  porter  at  Brig  O'- 
Dread  told.  He  said  that  you  yourself  would  show 
me  the  chapel.  He  said  not  to  be  surprised  if  you  pre 
tended  to  be  some  one  else.  He  said  you  had  done  that 
kind  of  thing  before.  He  seemed  nettled  about  some 
thing." 

In  spite  of  herself  Miss  McTavish  laughed.  "I  told 
him,"  she  said,  "that  if  you  crossed  my  hand  with  sil 
ver,  I  would  give  it  to  him;  but  if  you  crossed  my  hand 
with  gold,  I  would  keep  it  for  myself.  That  made  him 
furious,  and  he  slammed  the  door  when  he  left.  So 
you  knew  all  along?" 

"Yes — Mrs.  Nevis  MacNish  McTavish,  I  did;  and 
when  you  had  the  faint  spell  in  the  chapel,  I  almost 

305 


THE  McTAVISH 

proposed  then.  I  tell  you,  your  voice  and  your  face, 
and  the  way  you  walked — oh,  they  did  for  this  young 
man  on  the  spot!  Do  you  know  how  much  hunger  and 
longing  and  loving  can  be  crowded  into  a  few  days? 
I  do.  You  think  I  am  in  a  hurry  ?  It  seems  to  me  as 
if  there'd  been  millions  of  years  of  slow  waiting. " 

"I  have  certainly  played  the  fool,"  said  Miss  Mc- 
Tavish,  "and  I  suppose  I  have  let  myself  in  for  this." 
Her  voice  was  gentler.  "Do  you  know,  too,  why  I 
turned  white  in  the  chapel?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  know  that." 

"Traquair  told  you." 

"Yes." 

"And  if  you  hadn't  liked  me  this  way,  would  you 
have  turned  me  out  of  house  and  home?" 

He  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm,  and  they  crossed 
the  gravel  path  into  the  garden.  "  What  do  you  think  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"I  think — no,"  said  she. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  he.     "  Do  you  read  Tennyson  ?  " 

"No,"  said  she,  "Burns." 

McTavish  sighed  helplessly.  Then  a  light  of  mis 
chief  came  into  his  eye.  "As  Burns  says,"  said  he: 

"  '  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I/  said  he,  '  the  lawful  heir, 
We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare.' " 

306 


THE  McTAVISH 

"I  love  every  word  Burns  wrote,"  she  said  enthusi 
astically,  and  McTavish,  though  successful,  was 
ashamed. 

"McTavish,"  she  said,  "the  other  day,  when  I  felt 
that  I  had  to  get  here  before  you,  I  promised  my 
driver  ten  pounds  if  he  beat  your  car." 

"Yes,"  said  McTavish,  "I  guessed  what  was  up,  and 
told  my  man  to  go  slower.  It  wasn't  the  psychological 
moment  for  either  of  us  to  break  our  necks,  was  it?" 

"No;  but  I  promised  the  man  ten  pound,  McTavish 
— and  I  hav'na  got  it." 

"Ten  pounds  ought  to  have  a  certain  purchasing 
power,"  said  he. 

"Then  shut  your  eyes,"  she  commanded. 

"And  after  all,"  she  said,  "you'll  be  The  McTavish, 
won't  you?" 

"I  will  not,"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  I'm  going  to 
take  you  back  to  America  with  me  Saturday,  and  have 
all  my  friends  in  New  York  point  their  fingers  at  me, 
and  call  me—  The? " 


307 


THE    PARROT 


THE    PARROT 

He  had  been  so  buffeted  by  fortune,  through  various 
climates  and  various  applications  of  his  many-sidedness, 
that  when  I  first  met  Leslie  it  was  difficult  to  believe 
him  a  fellow  countryman.  His  speech  had  been  welded 
by  the  influence  of  alien  languages  to  a  choice  cosmo 
politanism.  His  skin,  thick  and  brown  from  blazing 
sunshines,  puckered  monkey-like  about  his  blue,  blink 
ing  eyes.  He  never  hurried.  He  was  going  to  Hong- 
Kong  to  build  part  of  a  dry-dock  for  the  English  Gov 
ernment,  he  said,  but  his  ambitions  had  dwindled  to 
owning  a  farm  somewhere  in  New  York  State  and 
having  a  regular  menagerie  of  birds  and  animals. 

His  most  enthusiastic  moments  of  conversation  were 
in  arguing  and  anecdotalizing  the  virtues  and  ratioci 
nations  of  animals  and  birds.  The  monkey,  he  said, 
was  next  to  man  the  most  clever,  but  was  inferior  to 
the  elephant  in  that  he  had  no  sense  of  right  or  wrong. 
Furthermore,  monkeys  were  immodest.  Next  came 
certain  breeds  of  dogs.  Very  low  in  the  scale  he  placed 
horses;  very  high,  parrots. 

"Concerning  parrots,"  he  said,  "people  are  under 
erroneous  impressions,  but  copying  and  imitation  are 

311 


THE  PARROT 

not  unreasonable  processes.  Your  parrot,  under  his 
bright  cynical  feathers,  is  a  modest  fowl  that  grasps  at 
every  opportunity  of  education  from  the  best  source — 
man.  In  a  native  state  his  intelligence  remains  closed: 
the  desire  to  be  like  a  woodpecker  or  a  humming-bird 
does  not  pick  at  the  cover.  Just  as  a  boy  born  in  an 
Indiana  village  and  observing  the  houses  of  his  neigh 
bors  might  not  wish  to  become  an  architect,  but  if  he 
were  transported  to  Paris  or  Vienna,  to  a  confrontation 
of  what  is  excellent  in  proportion,  it  might  be  that  art 
would  stir  in  his  spirit  and,  after  years  of  imitation, 
would  come  forth  in  a  stately  and  exquisite  procession 
of  buildings.  So  in  his  native  woods  the  parrot  recog 
nizes  nothing  but  color  that  is  worthy  of  his  imitation. 
But  in  the  habitations  of  man,  surrounded  by  taste, 
which  is  the  most  precious  of  all  gifts,  his  ambition 
begins  to  grow,  his  ignorance  becomes  a  shame.  He 
places  his  foot  on  the  first  rung  of  the  educational  lad 
der.  His  bright  colors  fade,  perhaps;  the  eyes  of  his 
mind  are  turned  toward  brighter  and  more  ornamental 
things.  What  creature  but  a  parrot  devotes  such  long 
hours  to  the  acquirement  of  perfection  in  each  trivial 
stage  of  progress  ?  What  -creature  remembers  so  faith 
fully  and  so  well  ?  We  know  not  what  we  are,  you  and 
I  and  the  rest  of  us;  but  if  we  had  had  the  application, 
patience,  and  ambition  of  the  average  parrot,  we  should 
be  greater  men.  But  some  people  say  that  parrots  are 

312 


THE  PARROT 

mean,  self-centred,  and  malignant.  They  have,  I 
admit,  a  crust  of  cynicism  which  might  lead  to  that  im 
pression,  and  not  unjustly,  but  underneath  the  parrot's 
crotchets  there  beats  a  great  and  benevolent  heart. 
Let  me  give  you  an  instance: 

"In  '88  my  luck  was  down,  and  as  a  first  step  to 
raising  it  I  shipped  before  the  mast  in  an  English  bot 
tom  outward  bound  from  Hong-Kong  to  Java.  Jaffray 
was  the  cook,  a  big  negro  who  owned  a  savage  gray 
parrot — a  mighty  clever  bird  but  to  all  intents  and  pur 
poses  of  a  most  unscrupulous  and  cruel  nature.  Many 
a  time  her  cleverness  at  provoking  a  laugh  was  all  that 
saved  her  from  sudden  death.  She  bit  whom  she  could; 
she  stole  what  she  could.  She  treated  us  like  dogs. 
Only  Jaffray  could  handle  her  without  a  weapon. 
Him  she  loved  and  made  love  to  with  a  sheepish  and 
resolute  abandon.  From  him  she  endured  the  rapid 
alternations  of  whippings  and  caressings  with  the  most 
stoical  fortitude  and  self-restraint.  When  he  whipped 
her  she  would  close  her  eyes  and  say:  'I  could  bite 
him,  but  I  won't.  Polly's  a  bad  girl.  Hit  her  again.' 
When  the  whipping  was  over  she  would  say:  'Polly's 
sore.  Poor  Polly!  How  I  pity  that  poor  girl !'  Love- 
making  usually  succeeded  a  whipping  in  short  order, 
and  then  she  was  at  her  best.  She  would  turn  her 
head  to  one  side,  cast  the  most  laughably  provoking 
glances,  hold  one  claw  before  her  face,  perhaps,  like  a 

313 


THE  PARROT 

skeleton  fan,  and  say:  ' Don't  come  fooling  round  me. 
Go  away,  you  bad  man/ 

"I  tried  my  best  to  be  friends  with  her.  But  only 
to  prove  that  the  knack  that  I  am  supposed  to  have  with 
birds  and  beasts  has  its  limitations.  With  one  long 
day  following  another  and  opportunity  constantly  at 
hand,  I  failed  utterly  in  obtaining  her  friendship.  In 
deed,  she  was  so  lacking  in  breeding  as  to  make  public 
mockings  of  my  efforts.  There  was  no  man  before  the 
mast  but  stood  higher  in  her  graces  than  I.  My  only 
success  was  in  keeping  my  temper.  But  it  was  fated 
that  we  should  be  friends  and  comrades,  drawn  to 
gether  by  the  bonds  of  a  common  suffering. 

"I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  the  wreck  another  time. 
In  some  ways  it  was  peculiar.  I  will  only  tell  you  now 
that  I  swam  for  a  long  time  (there  was  an  opaque  fog) 
and  bumped  my  head  against  one  of  the  ship's  boats. 
I  seized  the  gunwale  and  said,  'Steady  her,  please,  while 
I  climb  in/  but  had  no  answer.  The  boat,  apparently, 
had  torn  loose  from  her  davits  and  gone  voyaging 
alone.  But  as  I  made  to  climb  in  I  was  fiercely  at 
tacked  in  the  face  by  the  wings,  beak,  and  claws  of 
Jaffray's  graceless  parrot.  In  the  first  surprise  and 
discomfiture  I  let  go  and  sank.  Coming  up,  choking 
with  brine  and  fury,  I  overcame  resistance  with  a  back 
handed  blow,  and  tumbled  over  the  gunwale  into  the 
boat.  And  presently  I  was  aware  that  violence  had 

314 


THE  PARROT 

succeeded  where  patience  had  failed.  Polly  sat  in  the 
stern  sheets  timidly  cooing  and  offering  to  shake  hands. 
At  another  time  I  should  have  burst  laughing  at  her — 
she  was  so  coy,  so  anxious  to  please.  But  I  had  just 
arrived  from  seeing  my  captain's  head  broken  to  pieces 
by  a  falling  spar,  and  a  good  friend  of  mine  stabbed 
by  another  good  friend  of  mine,  and  I  was  nearer  to 
tears. 

"It  was  cold  for  that  part  of  the  world,  and  rain  fell 
heavily  from  time  to  time.  Polly  complained  bitterly 
all  night  and  said  that  she  would  take  her  death  o' 
cold,  but  in  the  morning  (I  had  fallen  asleep)  she  waked 
me  in  her  pleasantest  and  most  satisfied  voice,  saying, 
1  Tumble  up  for  breakfast/  I  pulled  myself  out  of  the 
rain-water  into  which  I  had  slipped,  and  sat  up.  The 
sky  and  sea  were  clear  from  one  horizon  to  the  other 
and  the  sun  was  beginning  to  scorch. 

"  ' Bully  and  warm,  ain't  it?'  said  Polly. 

"  *  Right  you  are,  old  girl/  said  I. 

"She  perched  on  my  shoulder  and  began  to  oil  and 
arrange  her  draggled  feathers. 

"  'What  a  hell  of  a  wreck  that  was!'  she  said  sud 
denly,  and,  after  a  pause:  'Where's  my  nigger?' 

"  'He's  forsaken  you,  old  girl,'  said  I,  'for  Mother 
Carey's  chickens.' 

"  'Poor  Polly,'  said  she;  'how  I  pity  that  poor 
girl!' 

315 


THE  PARROT 

"Now  I  don't  advance  for  a  moment  the  theory  that 
she  understood  all  that  she  said,  nor  even  a  part  of  what 
I  said.  But  her  statements  and  answers  were  often 
wonderfully  apt.  Have  you  ever  known  one  of  those 
tremendously  clever  deaf  people  whom  you  may  talk 
with  for  a  long  time  before  discovering  that  they  are 
deaf  ?  Talking  with  poor  Jaffray's  parrot  was  like  that. 
It  was  only  occasionally — not  often,  mind — that  her 
phrases  argued  an  utter  lack  of  reasoning  power.  She 
had  been  educated  to  what  I  suppose  to  be  a  point  very 
close  to  the  limit  of  a  parrot's  powers.  At  a  fair  count 
she  had  memorized  a  hundred  and  fifty  sentences,  a 
dozen  songs,  and  twenty  or  thirty  tunes  to  whistle. 
Many  savages  have  not  larger  vocabularies ;  many  high 
born  ladies  have  a  less  gentle  and  cultivated  enunciation. 
Let  me  tell  you  that  had  I  been  alone  in  that  boat,  a 
young  man,  as  I  then  was,  who  saw  his  ambitions  and 
energies  doomed  to  a  watery  and  abrupt  finish,  with  a 
brief  interval  of  starvation  to  face,  I  might  easily  have 
gone  mad.  But  I  was  saved  from  that  because  I  had 
somebody  to  talk  to.  And  to  receive  confidence  and 
complaint  the  parrot  was  better  fitted  than  a  human 
being,  better  fitted  than  a  woman,  for  she  placed  no 
bar  of  reticence,  and  I  could  despair  as  I  pleased  and 
on  my  own  terms. 

"My  clothes  dried  during  the  first  day,  and  at  night 
she  would  creep  under  my  coat  to  sleep.  At  first  I  was 

316 


THE  PARROT 

afraid  that  during  unconsciousness  I  should  roll  on  her. 
But  she  was  too  wary  for  that.  If  I  showed  a  tendency 
to  sprawl  or  turn  over,  she  would  wake  and  pierce 
my  ears  with  a  sharp  'Take  your  time!  Take  your 
time!' 

"At  sunrise  every  day  she  would  wake  me  with  a 
hearty  ' Tumble  up  for  breakfast.' 

"Unfortunately  there  was  never  any  breakfast  to  be 
had,  but  the  rain-water  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat, 
warm  as  it  was  and  tasting  of  rotting  wood,  saved  us 
from  more  frightful  trial. 

"Here  is  a  curious  fact:  After  the  second  night  I 
realized  and  counted  every  hour  in  all  its  misery  of 
hunger  and  duration,  yet  I  cannot,  to  save  my  soul, 
remember  how  many  days  and  nights  passed  between 
the  wreck  and  that  singular  argument  for  a  parrot's 
power  of  reasoning  that  was  to  be  advanced  to  me.  It 
suffices  to  know  that  many  days  and  nights  went  by 
before  we  began  to  die  of  hunger. 

"In  what  remained  of  the  rain-water  (with  the  slow 
oscillations  of  the  boat  it  swashed  about  and  left  de 
posits  of  slime  on  her  boards)  I  caught  from  time  to 
time  glimpses  of  my  face  as  affected  by  starvation. 
And  it  may  interest  you  to  know  that  it  was  not  the 
leanness  of  my  face  that  appalled  me  but  the  wicked 
ness  of  it.  All  the  sins  I  had  ever  sinned,  all  the  lies  I 
had  told,  all  the  meannesses  I  had  done,  the  drunks  I 

317 


THE  PARROT 

had  been  on,  the  lusts  I  had  sated,  came  back  to  me 
from  the  bilge-water.  And  I  knew  that  if  I  died  then 
and  there  I  should  go  straight  to  hell  if  there  was  one. 
I  made  divers  trials  at  repentance  but  was  not  able  to 
concentrate  my  mind  upon  them.  I  could  see  but  one 
hope  of  salvation — to  die  as  I  had  not  lived — like  a 
gentleman.  It  was  not  a  voluminous  duty,  owing  to 
the  limits  set  upon  conduct  by  the  situation,  but  it  was 
obvious.  Whatever  pangs  I  should  experience  in  the 
stages  of  dissolution,  I  must  spare  Polly. 

"In  view  of  what  occurred  it  is  sufficiently  obvious 
that  I  read  my  duty  wrongly.  For,  when  I  was  en 
couraging  myself  to  spare  the  bird  I  should  rather  have 
been  planning  to  save  her.  She,  too,  must  have  been 
suffering  frightfully  from  the  long-continued  lack  of 
her  customary  diet,  but  it  seems  that  while  enduring  it 
she  was  scheming  to  save  me. 

"She  had  been  sitting  disconsolately  on  the  gunwale 
when  the  means  struck  suddenly  into  her  tortuously 
working  mind  and  acted  upon  her  demeanor  like  a 
sight  of  sunflower  seeds,  of  which  she  was  prodigiously 
fond.  If  I  follow  her  reasoning  correctly  it  was  this. 
The  man  who  has  been  so  nice  to  me  needs  food. 
He  can't  find  it  for  himself;  therefore  I  must  find  it  for 
him.  Thus  far  she  reasoned.  And  then,  unfortu 
nately,  trusting  too  much  to  a  generous  instinct,  and 
disregarding  the  most  obvious  and  simple  calculation, 

318 


THE  PARROT 

she  omitted  the  act  of  turning  around,  and  instead  of 
laying  the  egg  that  was  to  save  me  in  the  boat,  she  laid 
it  in  the  ocean.  It  sank." 

Long  voyages  make  for  dulness.  I  had  listened  to 
the  above  narrative  with  so  much  interest  as  to  lose 
for  a  moment  my  sense  of  what  was  patent.  In  the 
same  absurd  way  that  one  man  says  to  another  whom 
he  knows  perfectly  well,  "What — is  this  you  ?"  I  said 
to  Leslie  very  eagerly,  "Were  you  saved?"  And  he 
answered,  "No;  we  were  both  drowned." 


319 


ON    THE    SPOT;   OR,    THE    IDLER'S 
HOUSE-PARTY 


, 


ON    THE    SPOT;    OR,    THE    IDLER'S 
HOUSE-PARTY 


Last  winter  was  socially  the  most  disgusting  that  I 
remember  ever  having  known,  because  everybody  lost 
money,  except  Sally's  father  and  mine.  We  didn't, 
of  course,  mind  how  much  money  our  friends  lost — 
they  always  had  plenty  left;  but  we  hated  to  have 
them  talk  about  it,  and  complain  all  the  time,  and  say 
that  it  was  the  President's  fault,  or  poor  John  Rocke 
feller's,  or  Senator  So-and-so's,  or  the  life  insurance 
people's.  When  a  man  loses  money  it  is,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  almost  always  his  own  fault.  I  said  so  at  the 
beginning  of  last  winter,  and  I  say  so  still.  And  Sally, 
who  is  too  lazy  to  think  up  original  remarks,  copied  it 
from  me  and  made  no  bones  about  saying  it  to  all  the 
people  she  knew  who  she  thought  needed  that  kind  of 
comfort.  But  perhaps,  now  that  I  think  of  it,  Sally 
and  I  may  have  contributed  to  making  the  winter 
socially  disgusting.  Be  that  as  it  may,  we  were  the 
greatest  sufferers. 

We  moved  to  Idle  Island  in  September.  And  we  were 
so  delighted  with  what  the  architects,  and  landscape- 

323 


ON  THE  SPOT 

gardeners,  and  mosquito  doctors  had  done  to  make  it 
habitable;  with  the  house  itself,  and  the  grape-house, 
and  greenhouses,  and  gardens,  and  pergolas,  and  mar 
ble  columns  from  Athens,  and  terraces,  and  in-and-out 
door  tennis-courts,  and  swimming-pools,  and  boat- 
houses,  and  golf  links,  and  all  the  other  country-place 
necessities,  and  particularly  with  a  line  of  the  most 
comfortable  lounging-chairs  and  divans  in  the  world, 
that  we  decided  to  spend  the  winter  there.  Sally  tele 
phoned  to  my  father's  secretary  and  asked  him  to  spend 
the  winter  with  us,  and  make  out  lists  for  week-end 
parties,  and  to  be  generally  civil  and  useful.  The 
secretary  said  that  he  would  be  delighted  to  come  if 
he  could  persuade  my  father  and  mother  to  go  abroad 
for  the  winter;  and  later  he  called  Sally  up,  and  said 
that  he  had  persuaded  them. 

Well,  from  the  first  our  week-end  parties  were  fail 
ures.  On  the  first  Friday  in  October  the  President 
of  the  United  States  said  that  he  hated  cheats  and  liars 
(only  he  mentioned  names)  and  the  stock-market  went 
to  smash.  Saturday  it  was  still  in  a  messy  state,  and 
the  people  who  came  out  Saturday  afternoon  couldn't 
or  wouldn't  talk  about  anything  else.  They  came  by 
the  4.30  to  Stepping-Stone,  and  were  ferried  over  to 
the  island  in  the  motor  boat.  Sally  and  I  rode  down 
to  the  pier  in  the  jinrikishas  that  my  father's  secretary 
had  had  imported  for  us  for  a  wedding  present;  and, 

324 


ON  THE  SPOT 

I  give  you  my  word,  the  motor-boat  as  it  slowed  into 
the  pier  looked  like  an  excursion  steamer  out  to  view 
the  beauties  of  the  Hudson.  Everybody  on  board  was 
hidden  behind  a  newspaper. 

"Fong,"  said  Sally  to  her  jinrikisha  man,  "take  me 
back  to  the  house." 

He  turned  and  trotted  off  with  her,  and  they  dis 
appeared  under  the  elms. 

"Just  because  your  guests  aren't  interested  in  you," 
I  called  after  her,  "  's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  be 
interested  in  them." 

But  she  didn't  answer,  and  I  was  afraid  I'd  hurt  her 
feelings;  so  I  said  to  my  man,  or  horse,  or  horse-man 
— it's  hard  to  know  what  to  call  them: 

"Long  Lee,  you  go  back  to  the  house,  clip-step." 

Clip-step  soon  overtook  Sally,  and  I  asked  her  what 
she  was  mad  about. 

"I'm  mad,"  she  said,  "because  none  of  those  people 
have  ever  seen  this  beautiful  island  before,  and  they 
wouldn't  look  up  from  their  dirty  old  newspapers. 
What's  the  matter  with  them?" 

"They're  worried  about  the  market,"  said  I,  "and 
each  one  wants  the  others  to  think  that  he's  more  wor 
ried  than  they  are.  That's  all." 

"But  the  women!"  said  Sally.  "There  we  sat  wav 
ing  to  them,  and  not  so  much  as  a  look  for  our  pains. 
My  arm  is  all  numb  from  waving  hospitably." 

325 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"  Never  mind,"  I  said.  "  I'll— I'll— ask  your  maid  to 
rub  it  for  you.  And  then  we'll  send  the  motor-boat 
for  the  very  latest  edition  of  the  papers,  and  we'll  have 
Blenheim  and  Windermere  fold  them  like  ships  and 
cocked  hats,  the  way  they  do  the  napkins,  and  put 
them  at  each  person's  place  at  dinner.  That  will 
be  the  tactful  way  of  showing  them  what  we  think 
about  it." 

Sally,  naturally  enough,  was  delighted  at  this  idea, 
and  forgot  all  about  her  poor,  numb  arm.  But  the 
scheme  sounded  better  than  it  worked.  Because  when 
we  went  in  to  dinner  the  guests,  instead  of  being  put  to 
shame  by  the  sight  of  the  newspapers,  actually  sput 
tered  with  pleasure,  and  fell  on  them  and  unfolded 
them  and  opened  them  at  the  financial  pages.  And 
then  the  men  began  to  shout,  and  argue,  and  perspire, 
and  fling  quotations  about  the  table,  and  the  women 
got  very  shrill,  and  said  they  didn't  know  what  they 
would  do  if  the  wretched  market  kept  up,  or  rather  if 
it  didn't  keep  up.  And  nobody  admired  the  new  fur 
niture  or  the  pictures,  or  the  old  Fiffield  plate,  or  Sally's 
gown,  or  said  anything  pleasant  and  agreeable. 

"Sam,"  said  Tony  Marshall  to  me,  "I'm  glad  that 
you  can  empty  your  new  swimming-pool  in  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  but  if  you  don't  watch  out  you 
may  be  so  poor  before  the  winter's  over  that  you  won't 
be  able  to  buy  water  enough  to  fill  it." 

326 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"If  you're  not  careful/'  I  said,  "I'll" fill  it  with  cham 
pagne  and  make  you  people  swim  in  it  till  you're  more 
sprightly  and  agreeable.  I  never  saw  such  a  lot  of 
oafs.  I " 

"I  tell  you,  Sam,"  bellowed  Billoo,  "that  the  finan 
cial  status  of  this  country,  owing  to  that  infernal  lunatic 
in  the  White  House " 

"If  you  must  tell  me  again — "  I  began. 

"Oh,"  he  said  disgustedly,  "you  can't  be  serious 
about  anything.  You're  so  da — a — ah — urn — rich  that 
you  never  give  a  thought  to  the  suffering  of  the  con 
sumer." 

"Don't  I?"  said  I.  "Did  you  happen  to  see  me  the 
morning  after  the  Clarion's  ball  last  winter  ? — I  thought 
about  the  consumer  then,  I  can  tell  you." 

Billoo  turned  his  back  on  me  very  rudely.  I  looked 
across  the  table  to  Sally.  She  smiled  feebly.  She  had 
drawn  back  her  chair  so  that  Tombs  and  Randall 
could  fight  it  out  across  her  plate  without  hitting  her 
in  the  nose.  They  were  frantically  shaking  their  fists 
at  each  other,  and  they  kept  saying  very  loud,  and  both 
at  once: 

"I  tell  you!"  and  they  made  that  beginning  over  and 
over,  and  never  got  any  further. 

At  two  o'clock  the  next  morning  Mrs.  Giddings 
turned  to  Sally  and  said: 

"And  now,  my  dear,  I  can't  wait  another  moment. 
327 


ON  THE  SPOT 

You  must  show  me  all  over  your  lovely  new  house.     I 
can  think  of  nothing  else." 

"  Can't  you  ?  "  said  Sally.  "  I  can.  It's  two  o'clock. 
But  I'll  show  you  to  your  own  lovely  room,  if  you 
like." 

In  the  morning  I  sent  for  Blenheim,  and  told  him  to 
take  all  the  Sunday  papers  as  soon  as  they  arrived  and 
throw  them  overboard.  All  I  meant  to  be  was  tactful. 
But  it  wouldn't  do.  The  first  thing  the  men  asked 
for  was  the  papers;  and  the  second  thing.  And  finally 
they  made  such  a  fuss  and  threw  out  so  many  hints 
that  I  had  to  send  the  motor-boat  over  to  the  main 
land.  This  made  me  rather  sore  at  the  moment,  and 
I  wished  that  the  motor-boat  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
Sound;  but  it  wasn't,  and  had  to  be  sent. 

Later  in  the  day  I  was  struck  with  an  idea.  It  was 
one  of  the  few  that  ever  struck  me  without  outside  help, 
and  I  will  keep  it  dark  for  the  present.  But  when  I 
got  Sally  alone  I  said  to  her: 

"Now,  Sally,  answer  prettily:  do  you  or  do  you  not 
know  what  plausible  weather  is?" 

"  I  do  not,"  she  said  promptly. 

"Of  course,  you  do  not,"  I  said,  "you  miserable 
little  ignoramus.  It  has  to  do  with  an  idea." 

"No,  Sam!  "cried  Sally. 

"One  of  mine,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  Sam!"  she  said.     "Can  I  help?" 
328 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"You  can." 

"How?" 

"You  can  pray  for  it." 

"For  the  idea?"  she  asked. 

"No,  you  silly  little  goat,"  I  said.  "For  the  plausi 
ble  weather." 

"Must  I?"  she  asked. 

"You  must,"  I  said.  "If  you  have  marrow-bones, 
prepare  to  use  them  now." 

Sally  looked  really  shocked. 

"Knees,"  I  explained.  "They're  the  same  thing. 
But  now  that  I  think  of  it,  you  needn't  use  yours.  If 
anybody  were  looking,  it  would  be  different,  of  course. 
But  nobody  is,  and  you  may  use  mine." 

So  Sally  used  my  knees  for  the  moment,  and  I  ex 
plained  the  idea  to  her  briefly,  and  some  other  things 
at  greater  length;  and  then  we  both  laughed  and 
prayed  aloud  for  plausible  weather. 

But  it  was  months  coming. 


II 

Think,  if  you  can,  of  a  whole  winter  passing  in 
Westchester  County  without  its  storming  one  or  more 
times  on  any  single  solitary  Saturday  or  Sunday  or 
holiday!  Christmas  Day,  even,  some  of  the  men 
played  tennis  out-of-doors.  The  balls  were  cold  and 

329 


ON  THE  SPOT 

didn't  bounce  very  high,  and  all  the  men  who  played 
wanted  to  sit  in  the  bar  and  talk  stocks,  but  otherwise 
it  made  a  pretty  good  game.  Often,  because  our 
guests  were  so  disagreeable  about  the  money  they  had 
lost  or  were  losing,  we  decided  not  to  give  any  more 
parties,  but  when  we  thought  that  fresh  air  was  good 
for  our  friends,  whether  they  liked  it  or  not,  of  course 
we  had  to  keep  on  asking  them.  And,  besides,  we  were 
very  much  set  on  the  idea  that  I  have  referred  to,  and 
there  was  always  a  chance  of  plausible  weather. 

It  did  not  come  till  May.  But  then  it  "came  good," 
as  Sally  said.  It  "came  good"  and  it  came  oppor 
tunely.  Everything  was  right.  We  had  the  right 
guests;  we  had  the  right  situation  in  Wall  Street,  and 
the  weather  was  right.  It  came  out  of  the  north-east, 
darkly  blowing  (this  was  Saturday,  just  after  the  usual 
motor-boat  load  and  their  afternoon  editions  had  been 
landed),  and  at  first  it  made  the  Sound,  and  even  the 
sheltered  narrows  between  the  island  and  the  main 
land,  look  pancake-flat  and  oily.  Then  it  turned  the 
Sound  into  a  kind  of  incoming  gray,  striped  with  white; 
and  then  into  clean  white,  wonderfully  bright  and  star 
ing  under  the  dark  clouds.  I  never  saw  a  finer  storm 
come  up  finer.  But  nobody  would  go  out  to  the  point 
to  see  it  come.  The  Stock  Exchange  had  closed  on 
the  verge  of  panic  (that  was  its  chronic  Saturday  clos 
ing  last  winter)  and  you  couldn't  get  the  men  or  women 

330 


ON  THE  SPOT 

away  from  the  thought  of  what  might  happen  Monday. 
"Good  heavens,"  said  Billoo,  " think  of  poor  Sharply 
on  his  way  home  from  Europe!  Can't  get  to  Wall 
Street  before  Wednesday,  and  God  knows  what  he'll 
find  when  he  gets  there." 

"What  good  would  it  do  him  to  get  there  before?" 
I  asked.  "Wouldn't  he  sail  right  in  and  do  the  wrong 
thing,  just  as  everybody  has  done  all  winter?" 

"You  don't  understand,  Sam,"  said  Billoo,  very 
lugubriously;  and  then  he  annihilated  me  by  banging 
his  fist  on  a  table  and  saying,  "At  least  he'd  be  on  the 
spot,  wouldn't  he?" 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "if  you  put  it  that  way,  I  admit  that 
that's  just  where  he  would  be.  Will  anybody  come 
and  have  a  look  at  the  fine  young  storm  that  I'm  hav 
ing  served?" 

"Not  now,  Sam — not  now,"  said  Billoo,  as  if  the 
storm  would  always  stay  just  where,  and  as,  it  was;  and 
nobody  else  said  anything.  The  men  wanted  to  shout 
and  get  angry  and  make  dismal  prophecies,  and  the 
women  wanted  to  stay  and  hear  them,  and  egg  them 
on,  and  decide  what  they  would  buy  or  sell  on  Mon 
day. 

"All  right,  Billoo-on-the-spot,"  I  said.  "Sally ?" 

Sally  was  glad  to  come.  And  first  we  went  out  on 
the  point  and  had  a  good  look  at  the  storm.  The 
waves  at  our  feet  were  breaking  big  and  wild,  the  wind 

331 


ON  THE  SPOT 

was  groaning  and  howling  as  if  it  had  a  mortal  stom 
ach-ache,  and  about  a  mile  out  was  a  kind  of  thick 
curtain  of  perpendicular  lines,  with  dark,  squally 
shadows  at  its  base. 

"Sam!"  cried  Sally,  "it's  snow — snow,"  and  she 
began  to  jump  up  and  down. 

In  a  minute  or  two  flakes  began  to  hit  us  wet  slaps 
in  the  face,  and  we  took  hands  and  danced,  and  then 
ran  (there  must  have  been  something  intoxicating 
about  that  storm)  all  the  way  to  the  pier.  And  there 
was  the  captain  of  the  motor-boat  just  stepping  ashore. 

"The  man  himself,"  said  Sally. 

"Captain,"  said  I,  "how  are  we  off  for  boats?" 

By  good-luck  there  were  in  commission  only  the 
motor-boat,  and  the  row-boat  that  she  towed  behind, 
and  a  canoe  in  the  loft  of  the  boat-house. 

"Captain,"  I  said,  "take  the  Hobo  (that  was  the 
name  of  the  motor-boat)  and  her  tender  to  City  Island, 
and  don't  come  back  till  Wednesday  morning,  in  time 
for  the  Wall  Street  special." 

"When  you  get  to  City  Island,"  said  Sally,  "try  to 
look  crippled." 

"Not  you,"  I  said,  "but  the  Hobo." 

"Tell  them,"  said  Sally,  "if  they  ask  questions,  that 
you  were  blown  from  your  moorings,  and  that  you 
couldn't  get  back  in  the  teeth  of  the  gale  because — 

because " 

332 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"Because,"  said  I,  "your  cylinders  slipped,  and 
your  clutch  missed  fire,  and  your  carbureter  was  full 
of  primes." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Sally,  "if  anybody  ever  asks 
you  anything  about  anything — lie." 

We  gave  him  a  lot  more  instructions,  and  some 
eloquent  money,  and  he  said,  "Very  good,  ma'am," 
to  me,  and  "Very  good,  miss,"  to  Sally,  and  pretty 
soon  he,  and  the  Hobo,  and  the  engineer,  and  the 
Hobo's  crew  of  one,  and  the  tender  were  neatly  blown 
from  their  moorings,  and  drifted  helplessly  toward 
City  Island  at  the  rate  of  twenty-two  miles  an 
hour.  Then  Sally  and  I  (it  was  snowing  hard,  now) 
climbed  into  the  loft  of  the  boat-house,  and  fixed  the 
canoe. 

"There,"  said  Sally,  putting  down  her  little  hatchet, 
"I  don't  believe  the  most  God-fearing  banker  in  this 
world  would  put  to  sea  in  that!  Well,  Sam,  we've 
done  it  now." 

"We  have,"  said  I. 

"Will  Monday  never  come?"  said  Sally. 

"Stop,"  said  I;   "the  telephone." 

Idle  Island  was  moored  to  the  mainland  by  a  tele 
phone  cable.  It  took  us  nearly  an  hour  to  find  where 
this  slipped  into  the  water.  And  we  were  tired  and 
hungry  and  wet  and  cold,  but  we  simply  had  to  perse 
vere.  It  was  frightful.  At  length  we  found  the  thing 

333 


ON  THE  SPOT 

— it  looked  like  a  slimy  black  snake — and  we  cut 
it,  where  the  water  was  a  foot  deep — the  water  bit 
my  wrists  and  ankles  as  sharply  as  if  it  had  been 
sharks — and  went  back  to  the  house  through  the 
storm. 

It  was  as  black  as  night  (the  weather,  not  the  house), 
snowing  furiously  and  howling.  We  crept  into  the 
house  like  a  couple  of  sneak-thieves,  and  heard  Billoo 
at  his  very  loudest  shouting: 

"I  had  Morgan  on  the  wire  all  right — and  the  fool 
operator  cut  me  off!" 

Sally  snipped  her  wet  ringers  in  my  face. 

"Hello,  fool  operator,"  she  said. 

"Hello,  yourself,"  said  I.  "But  oh,  Sally,  listen  to 
that  wind,  and  tell  me  how  it  sounds  to  you.  A  wet 
hug  if  you  guess  the  answer." 

"To  me,"  said  Sally,  "it  sounds  plausible."  And 
she  got  herself  hugged. 


Ill 

I  don't  believe  that  anybody  slept  much  Saturday 
night.  You  never  heard  such  a  storm  in  your  life.  It 
seemed  to  Sally  and  me,  who  would  have  been  the 
chief  sufferers  if  it  had  blown  down,  that  our  comfort 
able,  brand-new  marble  house  flapped  like  a  flag. 
Every  now  and  then  there  came  a  tremendous  crack 

334 


ON  THE  SPOT 

from  one  part  of  the  island  or  another;  and  each  time 
Sally  would  say,  "There  goes  my  favorite  elm,"  or  I 
would  say,  "There  goes  that  elm  again." 

Most  of  the  men  came  down  to  breakfast  Sunday 
morning.  What  with  the  storm  and  the  worry  about 
stocks  keeping  them  awake  most  of  the  night,  they  were 
without  exception  nervous  and  cross,  particularly 
Billoo.  He  looked  like  an  owl  that  had  been  first 
stuffed  and  then  boiled.  Blenheim  told  me  later  that 
at  various  times  during  the  night  he  had  carried  four 
several  pints  of  champagne  to  Billoo's  room;  and  at 
7  A.  M.,  bicarbonate  of  soda  and  aromatic  spirits  of 
ammonia. 

"I  tell  you,  Sam,"  said  Billoo  crossly,  "I've  been 
awake  all  night  thinking  what  it  would  mean  to  some 
of  us — yes,  me! — if  this  storm  should  wreck  that  ferry 
boat  of  yours." 

A  lot  of  wet  snow  and  wind  hit  the  dining-room  win 
dows  a  series  of  rattling  slaps. 

"She's  a  good  boat,  Sam,  but  smallish  to  ride  out 
such  a  storm  as  this." 

"What  a  goat  you  are,  Sam,"  said  Tombs,  also 
crossly,  "not  to  keep  two  ferry-boats,  so  that  if  one 
breaks  down  you  have  the  other." 

"When  we  made  up  our  minds  to  spend  the  winter 
here,"  I  said,  "I  ordered  another;  in  fact,  two.  But 
they're  still  building;  and  besides,  what  if  the  Hobo 

335 


ON  THE  SPOT 

does  break  down?     There's  plenty  to  eat  and  drink, 
I  hope.     Nobody  would  suffer  much." 

"No,"  said  Billoo,  "it  would  be  no  suffering  for  a 
business  man  to  be  storm-bound  here  during  a  prob 
able  panic  in  Wall  Street! 

"I'm  tired,"  I  said,  "of  hearing  you  refer  to  yourself 
or  any  of  these  gentlemen  as  business  men.  You  al 
ways  gamble;  and  when  you're  in  good-luck  you  gam 
bol,  and  when  you  aren't,  you  don't.  What  makes  me 
sickest  about  you  all  is  that  you're  so  nauseatingly  con 
ceited  and  self-important.  You  all  think  that  your 
beastly  old  Stock  Exchange  is  the  axle  about  which  the 
wheel  of  the  world  revolves,  and  each  of  you  thinks, 
privately,  that  he's  the  particular  grease  that  makes  it 
revolve  smoothly." 

"Well,"  said  Billoo,  "you  know  that  the  presence  on 
the  floor  of  one  steady,  conservative  man  may  often 
avert  a  panic." 

"Show  me  the  man,"  I  said.  "Has  any  one  here 
ever  caused  a  panic  or  averted  one?  But  you  all  lose 
money  just  as  often  because  you're  on  the  spot,  as 
make  it.  Wouldn't  you  all  be  the  richer  for  an  ab 
sence  now  and  then?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Randall,  "there  are  times  when  it 
doesn't  matter  one  way  or  the  other.  But  when — well, 
when  the  market's  in  the  state  it  is  now,  it's  life  or  death, 
almost,  to  be  on  the  spot." 

336 


ON  THE   SPOT 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  said.  "When  the  market 
looks  fussy,  why  not  sell  out,  and  wait  for  better 
times?" 

"We  can't  sell  out,"  said  Billoo.  "We're  loaded  up 
to  the  muzzle." 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  been,"  I  said  courteously; 
but  Billoo  brushed  the  remark  aside  as  if  it  had  been  a 

%• 

"If  we  try  to  unload,"  he  said,  "the  market  begins 
to  collapse.  We  can't  unload,  except  a  little  at  a  time, 
and  still  prices  get  lower  and  lower  and  margins  thin 
ner  and  thinner.  Now,  I  happen  to  know" — he  looked 
about  him  importantly — "that  to-morrow  will  hear  the 
failure  of  a  very  well-known  house,  and  after  that's 
announced — God  knows." 

"How  true  that  is!"  I  said.  "But  tell  me:  suppose 
you  gentlemen  deliberately  absented  yourselves  for  a 
few  days — wouldn't  it  restore  confidence?  Wouldn't 
the  other  brokers  say:  *  Billoo,  Randall,  Tombs, 
Marshall,  Bedlo,  etc.,  don't  seem  to  think  there's  much 
doing.  None  of  'em's  here — what's  the  use  of  me 
being  scared  ? ' ' 

"  It  would  have  the  contrary  effect,  Sam,"  said  Tombs 
solemnly.  "They  would  think  that  we  had  decamped 
in  a  body  for  Canada." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I,  "but  it  would  be  a  better 
thing  for  the  country  if  you  all  did  ship  to  Canada — 

337 


ON  THE  SPOT 

I  don't  think  there's  much  doing  out-doors  to-day. 
Hear  that  wind!" 

"If  I  can  get  rid  of  all  my  holdings/'  said  Billoo, 
"I'll  sit  tight.  We'll  see  lower  prices  before  we  see 
higher." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I'll  bet  you  we  don't." 

"Young  man,"  said  Billoo,  and  he  looked  almost 
well  and  happy,  "just  name  your  sum." 

"I'll  bet  you  a  thousand,"  I  said. 

"Sammy,"  said  Tombs  very  sweetly,  "have  you  got 
another  thousand  up  your  sleeve?" 

"Sure,"  I  said. 

"Done  with  you,"  said  Tombs. 

In  about  five  minutes  I  had  bet  with  everybody 
present. 

"But  mind,"  I  said,  "there  mustn't  be  any  dirty 
work.  You  people  mustn't  go  to  town  to-morrow  with 
the  idea  of  forming  a  strong  coalition  and  putting 
prices  down." 

"It  wouldn't  be  worth  while,"  said  Billoo.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  we'd  like  nothing  better  than  to  see  you 
win  your  bet,  but  as  you  can't,  possibly — why,  a  thou 
sand  dollars  is  always  a  thousand  dollars." 

"Just  the  same,"  said  I,  "?io  coalitions." 

The  wind  went  on  howling  till  late  in  the  afternoon 
and  then  it  began  to  peter  out.  We  had  spent  the 
whole  day  in  the  house,  and  everybody  was  tired  and 

338 


ON  THE  SPOT 

bored,  and  nervous  about  Monday,  and  bedtime  came 
earlier  than  usual. 

"Sam,"  said  Sally,  when  we  were  alone,  "it's  just 
occurred  to  me  that  we  may  be  causing  some  of  these 
people  to  lose  a  lot  of  money." 

"Why,  Sally,"  I  said,  "you  look  scared." 

"I  am,"  she  said.  "Don't  you  think  it  would  be 
rather  awful?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  I  said;  "I  think  it  would  be  split- 
tingly  funny.  But  they  won't  lose.  Their  absence 
will  steady  the  market." 

"Who  told  you  that,  Sam?"  said  Sally. 

"Sam!"  said  I. 


IV 

Even  before  the  leaves  come,  you  can't  see  the  pier 
from  the  house.  It  runs  out  from  the  bottom  of  a  high 
bank  and  is  otherwise  hidden  by  trees.  But  it's  only 
a  short  distance,  and  in  good  weather  we  have  the 
guests  walk  it,  because  it  gives  them  a  better  chance  to 
admire  the  gardens  and  the  Athenian  columns  and 
things.  But  Monday,  which  dawned  bright  and  still 
and  warm,  and  was  just  as  typical  of  May  in  West- 
chester  as  was  the  snow-and-wind  storm,  we  drove 
them  down  in  a  bus  because  the  roads  and  paths  were 
horribly  muddy.  Of  course,  none  of  the  women  wanted 

339 


ON  THE  SPOT 

to  take  the  early  train,  so  there  were  only  the  men  and 
Sally  and  I  in  the  bus.  Sally  said  that  there  was 
going  to  be  some  fun  when  the  men  got  to  the  pier 
and  didn't  find  the  Hobo,  and  she  wasn't  going  to 
miss  it.  Just  before  we  started  she  drew  me  aside 
and  said: 

"Sam,  when  we  get  there,  for  Heaven's  sake  look 
blank." 

"I  understand  your  fears,  Sally,"  I  said,  "and  I  will 
look  as  blank  as  I  possibly  can.  But  remember,  child, 
how  easy  it  is  for  you  to  look  blank;  and  don't  always 
be  urging  others  to  attempt  the  impossible." 

"Mrs.  Sam,"  said  Billoo,  on  the  way  down,  "I  can't 
tell  you  what  a  good  time  I've  had." 

"You  nice  man,"  said  Sally,  "I  wish  we  could  per 
suade  you  to  stay  a  day  or  two  longer." 

"If  it  wasn't  for  the  market,  I  could  stay  forever," 
said  Billoo. 

"Not  if  I  lived,"  said  I.  "Saturday  to  Monday  is 
plenty  long  enough — Hello !" 

The  pier  and  the  empty  stretch  of  water  between  the 
island  and  the  mainland  were  in  sight,  but  there  was 
no  Hobo. 

"Hello  what?"  said  Tombs.  "Why,  where's  the 
ferry?" 

"I  don't  see  her,"  I  said,  and,  I  hope,  anxiously; 

"you  don't  suppose " 

340 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"Isn't  the  Hobo  there?"  shrieked  Billoo.  He 
turned  his  head  on  his  fat  neck,  and  at  first  he  looked 
very  angry,  and  then  scared. 

We  walked  down  to  the  pier,  and  then  out  on  the 
float  to  get  as  big  a  water  view  as  possible,  but  there 
wasn't  so  much  as  a  row-boat  in  sight. 

"What  can  have  happened?"  said  Sally. 

"I'm  worried  to  death,"  I  said.  "Suppose  she  was 
blown  from  her  moorings,  the  captain  could  have  run 
her  into  New  Rochelle,  and  come  back  yesterday  after 
noon  when  the  wind  went  down.  Something  must 
have  happened." 

"Oh,  Sam,"  cried  Sally,  "you  don't  think  she  may 
have  been  run  down  by  one  of  the  Sound  steamers  and 
sunk?" 

"I  dare  not  think  of  it,"  I  said.  "I  dare  not  think 
of  the  poor  chaps  on  board." 

"I  don't  see  how  I'm  to  get  to  town,"  said  Billoo 
dismally.  He  pulled  out  his  watch,  and  held  it  in  his 
hand,  and  every  moment  or  two  looked  at  it.  "  Haven't 
you  a  couple  of  row-boats  ?  We  couldn't  get  this  train,, 
but  we  could  get  the  next " 

I  shook  my  head.  "I'm  sorry,"  I  said.  "We're 
not  much  on  the  water,  and  we've  never  been  properly 
supplied  with  boats " 

Billoo  swallowed  some  hasty  thought  or  other,  and 
began  to  look  across  at  the  mainland.  My  father 

341 


ON  THE  SPOT 

owns  all  the  land  opposite  the  island,  even  the  pier 
and  the  short  road  to  the  village  of  Stepping-Stone ; 
and  although  there  were  several  boats  at  the  pier,  there 
were  no  people,  and  the  rest  of  the  shore  is  nothing 
but  thick  woods. 

"We  must  telephone  somewhere,"  said  Billoo. 

"You  can't,"  I  said.  "You  know  you  tried  to  tele 
phone  all  yesterday  and  couldn't,  and  the  butler  told 
me  this  morning  that  he  had  tried  to  put  in  a  call  and 
got  no  answer." 

"What  does  it  matter?"  said  Sally.  "You've  all 
got  to  stay  now.  I  think  that's  splendid." 

"Mrs.  Sam,"  said  Tombs  hollowly,  "do  you  realize 
that  this  accident  may  mean  ruin  for  some  of  us?" 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Sally  "how  dreadful!" 

"Somehow  of  other,"  said  Billoo,  "I'm  going  to  get 
across." 

And  the  others  said  that  somehow  or  other  they  were 
going  to  get  across,  too. 

"I've  got  to!"  said  Billoo,  and  he  looked  about  in  a 
fat,  challenging  way  as  if  daring  any  one  to  say  that 
he  had  not  got  to. 

"You  poor  things,"  said  Sally,  "I  hope  to  Heaven 
you  can;  but  how?" 

"Where  there's  a  will,  Mrs.  Sam — "  Billoo  said. 
And  he  began  to  think  hard.  All  of  a  sudden  his  face 
brightened. 

342 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"It's  too  easy/'  he  said.  "The  wind's  right;  four 
or  five  of  us  have  umbrellas —  Sam,  you'll  have  to 
lend  us  this  float.  We've  only  to  cut  it  from  its  moor 
ings,  and  sail  it  across —  May  we  have  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  you're  crazy  to  try  it." 

"It's  a  case  of  sink  or  swim,"  said  he.  "Who's 
coming?" 

Without  exception  the  men  agreed  to  sail  with  him 
on  the  float.  It  was  a  fine,  big  platform,  floated  on 
sheet-iron  air-tanks,  and  moored  at  the  four  corners  by 
heavy  ropes. 

Sally  and  I  withdrew  to  the  pier  and  watched  Billoo 
and  the  others  cut  slowly  through  the  ropes  with  their 
pocket-knives.  Presently  the  float  began  to  move,  and 
a  second  or  two  later  the  float  end  of  the  gang-plank 
slipped  into  the  water  with  a  heavy  splash.  Those 
who  had  umbrellas  opened  them  to  catch  the  breeze, 
and  the  others  lit  cigars,  and  stood  about  in  grace 
ful  attitudes.  Sally  and  I  cheered  as  loud  as  we 
could. 

"I'll  send  you  a  tug  or  something,"  Billoo  called 
back  to  us,  "and  try  to  find  out  what's  happened  to 
the  Hobo." 

"Thank  you!"  I  called  back. 

"Sam,"  said  Sally,  "I  don't  know  what  you  think, 
but  I  call  it  good  sand." 

"So  do  I,"  said  I,  "but  foolish." 
343 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"Why  foolish?"  said  Sally.  "They're  really  going 
quite  fast,  and  they'll  be  across  in  no  time,  and  they'll 
get  the  next  train  and  everything." 

"They  will  not,"  I  said. 

"Why?  "said  Sally. 

"Because,"  said  I,  "they  will  run  on  to  the  middle 
ground,  and  stay  there." 

"Not  at  high  tide!"  exclaimed  Sally. 

"At  high  tide,"  said  I.  "That  float  draws  a  good 
two  feet,  and  it's  so  heavy  that  once  it  runs  on  the  mud 
it  will  stay  on  the  mud — "  And  then  I  shouted  to 
Billoo: 

"Look  out  for  the  middle  ground!" 

"What?"  he  answered. 

"Why  do  you  warn  him?"  said  Sally. 

"Because  it  won't  help  him,"  said  I. 

"What?"  called  Billoo  again,  and  Sally  answered  at 
the  top  of  her  lungs,  "Look — out — for — the — middle — 
ground!" 

"Right  O!"  Billoo  answered;  "where  is  it?" 

"Just  ahead,"  Sally  called. 

Billoo  turned  to  look,  and  at  that  moment  the  float, 
which  was  travelling  at  a  good  clip,  ran  into  it. 

Billoo  and  Randall  fell  flat  on  their  faces;  everybody 
staggered;  one  umbrella  and  two  hats  went  overboard 
and  drifted  away,  and  Sally  and  I  sat  down  on  the  pier 
and  laughed  till  we  were  helpless. 

344 


ON  THE  SPOT 


The  float  had  become  a  fixture  in  the  landscape  about 
two  hundred  and  fifty  yards  out.  We  could  converse 
with  our  friends  by  shouting  only,  and  when  we  got 
tired  of  condoling  with  them  and  giving  them  assur 
ances  of  our  sympathy,  we  told  them  that  we  were 
going  back  to  the  house  to  get  some  more  breakfast 
and  think  out  what  was  best  to  be  done. 

"Sam,"  said  Sally,  "that's  the  maddest  lot  of  men 
I  ever  saw." 

We  looked  back.  Billoo  was  stamping  up  and  down 
the  float,  waving  his  arms  and  orating  like  Falstaff; 
Randall  and  Tombs  had  their  heads  together,  and 
were  casting  what  appeared  to  be  baleful  glances  at 
Billoo.  It  was  evident  that  he  was  not  popular  on  the 
float. 

When  we  had  had  some  more  breakfast,  and  had  sat 
around  a  little  to  digest  it,  the  women  began  to  come 
down-stairs.  Mrs.  Randall  was  the  first  to  come  down, 
and  she  was  in  great  distress. 

"It's  too  dreadful,"  she  said.  "I  had  something  of 
the  utmost  importance  to  tell  Billy,  something  that  I 
wanted  him  to  do  for  me  down-town.  And  I  over 
slept." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "let  me  tell  you  what  a  good  fellow 
Billy  is.  He  hasn't  gone  yet." 

345 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"Good  Heavens!''  she  cried,  "not  gone  yet?  Why, 
what  time  is  it?  Why,  he  won't  get  down-town  in 
time  for  the  opening!" 

"Probably  not,"  I  said.  "He  was  just  going,  when 
suddenly  he  said,  'I  know  there's  something  my  wife 
wants  to  say  to  me.'  I  said,  'Wake  her  up  and  find 
out  what  it  is.'  He  said,  'No,  she's  getting  so  she 
can't  do  without  her  beauty  sleep;  I'll  just  wait  around 
till  she  wakes  of  herself.' ' 

"Sam,"  said  Mrs.  Randall,  "what  has  happened  to 
my  husband?" 

"Nothing  much,"  I  said.  "He's  in  the  same  boat 
with  many  others — only  it  isn't  a  boat.  Don't  be 
alarmed." 

"Where  is  my  husband?'1  said  she. 

"If  you  are  equal  to  a  short,  muddy  walk,"  I  said, 
"I  will  show  him  to  you —  Morning,  little  Miss 
Tombs — want  to  see  brother  and  young  Fitch  ?  They 
said  they  wouldn't  go  to  town  till  you'd  seen  them — 
Morning,  Mrs.  Giddings — morning,  Miss  Marshall — 
I'm  not  much  on  breaking  bad  news,  but  there's  been 
an  accident  to  all  your  husbands  and  brothers  and 
fiance's.  They're  all  alive  still,  so  far  as  I  know — but 
they  ought  not  to  last  more  than  five  or  six  days." 

"It's  proposed,"  said  Sally,  "that  we  all  go  and  see 
what  can  be  done  for  them." 

We  refused  to  answer  any  questions.  We  led  the 
346 


ON  THE  SPOT 

way  to  the  pier  and  pointed  out  the  float,  and  the  men 
on  it.  "There,"  said  Sally,  "you  can  see  them  quite 
plainly  from  here." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "and  the  more  plainly  you  see  them, 
the  plainer  they  are." 

"  Will  you  kindly  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Randall,  "what 
my  husband  is  doing  out  there  on  that  float?" 

"He  is  doing  nothing,"  I  said.  "You  can  see  for 
yourself.  And  it  isn't  a  float  any  more." 

"Better  tell  them  what  has  happened,"  said  Sally. 

"No,  Sally,"  I  said,  "no." 

"Yes,  Sam,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  I  said,  "if  you  really  think  it's  best. 
The  fact  is,  ladies,  the  whole  thing  is  a  piece  of  drunken 
folly.  You  know  how  men  are  when  they  get  drinking 
and  arguing,  and  quarrelling.  To  make  a  long  story 
short,  it  came  to  Billoo's  insulting  Randall;  Randall 
challenges  him;  duelling  is  against  the  law;  they  take 
pistols  and  witnesses  out  on  the  water  beyond  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  United  States;  and  they  were  going 
to  murder  each  other.  But  it's  all  right  now — don't 
be  frightened." 

Sally  had  turned  her  face  away,  and  I'm  sure  I  was 
serious  as  a  judge.  I  patted  Mrs.  Randall  on  the 
shoulder. 

"Even  if  your  husband  isn't  brave,"  I  said,  "he's 
clever,  clever  and  deep." 

347 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"My  husband  not  brave!"  she  cried.  "I  like  that; 
he's  the  bravest  man  I  ever  saw." 

"Well,  that  may  be,"  I  said  doubtfully,  "but,  con 
sidering  that  on  the  way  out  to  the  duelling  ground, 
or  water,  when  nobody  was  looking  but  Sally  and  me, 
he  kicked  the  box  of  cartridges  overboard.  But,  per 
haps  they'll  agree  to  use  pocket-knives " 

"Sam,"  said  little  Miss  Tombs,  "I'll  give  you  a  kiss 
good-morning  if  you'll  be  serious." 

"Wait  till  Fitch  is  looking,"  I  said. 

Then  Sally  explained  what  had  happened,  and  edged 
herself  so  politely  between  little  Miss  Tombs  and  me 
that  the  others  laughed. 

"They'll  float  at  high  tide,  won't  they?"  asked  Mrs. 
Giddings. 

"No,"  I  said.  "It  was  high  tide  when  they  ran 
aground.  It  will  take  a  tugboat  to  get  them  off." 

The  words  weren't  out  of  my  mouth  when  a  tug 
boat  appeared  round  the  corner  of  the  island,  making 
up  the  channel.  The  men  on  the  float  began  to  scream 
and  yell,  and  jump  up  and  down,  and  wave  their  arms. 
But  the  tugboat  paid  no  attention.  It  thought  they 
were  drunk.  It  passed  within  three  hundred  yards  of 
them,  whistled  a  couple  of  times,  and  became  small  in 
the  distance. 

"Sam,"  said  Sally,  "in  about  an  hour  they'll  be  high 
and  dry  on  the  mud.  Then  not  even  a  boat  can  get 

348 


ON  THE  SPOT 

to  them.  And  by  the  time  it's  high  tide  again  it  will 
be  dark  and  nobody  will  see  them,  and  they'll  be  dy 
ing  of  hunger  and  thurst." 

"That's  true,"  I  said.  "Sally,  you  explain  that  to 
them,  and  I'll  have  the  men  fetch  one  of  the  stable 
doors,  and  we'll  put  a  sail  on  it  and  provision  it  and 
trust  to  its  hitting  the  middle  ground  about  where 
they  did." 

I  never  worked  so  hard  in  my  life.  I  had  a  stable 
door  taken  off  its  tracks  and  rigged  with  the  canoe's 
sail;  and  we  put  a  case  of  champagne  on  board,  and  a 
tub  of  ice,  and  bread,  and  cold  meat,  and  butter,  and 
jam,  and  cigars,  and  cigarettes,  and  liquors,  and  a 
cocktail  shaker,  and  a  bottle  of  olives  stuffed  with  red 
peppers,  for  Billoo,  and  two  kinds  of  bitters,  and 
everything  else  to  eat  or  drink  that  anybody  could 
think  of,  and  some  camp-chairs,  and  cards  for  bridge, 
and  score-pads,  and  pencils,  and  a  folding  table.  Of 
course,  most  of  the  things  got  soaked  the  minute  we 
launched  the  door,  but  there  wasn't  time  to  do  the 
thing  over  again.  So  we  gave  the  relief  boat  three 
cheers  and  let  her  go. 

The  way  the  men  on  the  float  eyed  the  course  of  the 
door,  you  would  have  thought  them  all  nearly  half 
dead  with  hunger  and  thirst.  We  were  all  excited,  too. 

At  first  the  door  made  straight  for  the  float.  Then 
the  breeze  shifted  a  little,  and  it  made  to  the  left  of 

349 


ON  THE  SPOT 

the  float — then  to  the  right  of  it — and  then  straight  at 
it  again. 

Everybody  cheered.  The  relief  expedition  looked 
like  a  success.  The  men  all  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
float  to  meet  it — and  then,  just  as  all  seemed  well,  a 
dark  patch  of  wind  came  scudding  across  the  water, 
filled  the  door's  sail,  and  sent  the  door  kiting  off  to 
the  right  again.  The  game  was  up,  The  door  was 
going  to  miss  the  float  by  sixty  or  seventy  feet. 

Then  the  men  on  the  float  began  to  toss  coins;  there 
was  a  shout  of  delight;  and  Billoo,  trumpeting  his 
hands,  called  to  me: 

"Make  the  ladies  go  behind  the  boat-house,  quick!" 
And  he  began  to  unbutton  his  coat.  I  herded  the 
women  behind  the  boat-house  and  ran  back  to  the 
pier.  Billoo  was  stripping  as  fast  as  he  could. 

"What's  he  doing?"  Mrs.  Giddings  called  to  me. 

And  I  answered,  "He  seems  to  be  overcome  by  the 
heat." 

A  few  moments  later  Billoo  stood  revealed,  a  fat 
white  silhouette  against  the  opposite  shore.  He  stepped 
from  the  float  into  the  water;  it  came  to  his  ankles. 
Then  he  waded,  gingerly  but  with  determination,  tow 
ard  the  passing  door.  He  went  as  if  he  expected  the 
water  to  get  suddenly  deep,  but  it  didn't.  At  no  time 
did  it  reach  to  his  ankles,  until,  just  as  he  was  reach 
ing  out  his  hand  to  catch  hold  of  the  door,  and  just  as 

350 


ON  THE  SPOT 

the  men  on  the  float  set  up  a  cheer,  he  stepped  off  the 
middle  ground  in  to  deep  water. 

The  splash  that  he  made  lifted  the  door  half  out  of 
water,  and  shot  it  away  from  him,  the  wind  filled  its 
sail,  and  when  Billoo  came  to  the  surface  and  looked  for 
it,  it  was  thirty  feet  off.  But  he  set  his  teeth  (I  think 
he  set  them)  and  swam  after  it.  Just  as  he  reached  it, 
he  fetched  an  awful  yell.  He  had  been  seized  with 
cramps.  Still,  he  had  sense  enough  to  cling  to  the 
door,  and,  when  the  first  spasm  of  the  cramp  had 
passed,  to  sprawl  himself  upon  it.  There  he  lay  for  a 
while,  lapped  by  the  water  that  came  over  the  door, 
and  writhing  in  his  fat  nakedness. 

Meanwhile,  the  door  was  caught  in  the  full  strength 
of  the  ebbing  tide,  and  began  to  make  for  the  open 
Sound.  Poor  Billoo  was  in  a  bad  way — and  when 
he  turned  the  ice-tub  upside  down  for  a  seat,  and 
wrapped  himself  in  the  canoe  sail,  I  invited  the  women 
to  come  out  and  see  for  themselves  how  brave  he 
was. 

He  waved  his  hand  to  us,  and  just  as  he  and  his 
well-provisioned  craft  rounded  a  corner  of  the  island 
he  selected  a  bottle  of  champagne  and  deftly  extracted 
the  cork. 

I  told  some  of  my  men  to  follow  along  the  shore  and 
to  let  me  know  what  became  of  him.  I  couldn't  do 
anything  more  for  Billoo;  but  I  liked  the  man,  and 

351 


ON  THE  SPOT 

took  an  affectionate  interest  in  his  ultimate  fate — 
whatever  it  might  be.  And  I  call  that  true  friend 
ship. 

Pretty  soon  the  middle  ground  on  which  the  float 
was  stuck  began  to  show  above  water,  and  as  it  was 
evident  that  we  could  do  nothing  further  for  the  relief 
of  our  shipwrecked  friends,  we  decided  to  go  back  to 
the  house,  change  our  muddy  boots,  play  a  rubber  or 
so,  and  have  lunch.  But  first  little  Miss  Tombs  called 
to  young  Fitch,  and  told  him  if  he  found  himself  starv 
ing  to  dig  clams  in  the  mud. 


VI 

The  only  fault  that  I  could  find  with  the  way  things 
had  gone  so  far  was  that  Sally  had  a  disgusting  head 
ache  that  marred  her  pleasure  and  her  sense  of  humor. 
She  hadn't  said  very  much,  and  had  laughed  with  only 
a  half-heart  at  things  that  had  seemed  to  me  excru 
ciatingly  funny.  For  instance,  when  Billoo  was  seized 
with  the  cramps  she  had  barely  smiled,  and  once  or 
twice  when  I  had  been  doing  the  talking  she  had  looked 
pityingly  at  me,  instead  of  roaring  with  laughter,  the 
way  a  wife  should  do. 

And  when  we  got  to  the  house,  she  said  that  if  we 
would  excuse  her  she  would  go  to  her  room  and  lie 
down. 

352 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"I've  just  got  one  of  my  usual  headaches,"  she 
said. 

That  remark  worried  me,  because  it  was  the  first 
headache  she  had  ever  complained  of  to  me;  and  when, 
after  she  had  gone  upstairs,  Miss  Randall  said,  "Maybe 
Sally  ought  to  see  the  doctor,"  I  had  a  sudden  awful, 
empty,  gulpy  feeling.  Suppose  she  was  going  to  be 
really  sick!  Suppose  she  was  going  to  have  pneu 
monia  or  scarlet-fever  or  spinal  meningitis!  Here  we 
were,  cut  off  from  medical  assistance  till  Wednesday 
morning.  And  it  was  our  own  fault — mine;  mine,  for 
being  too  funny.  Then  I  thought,  "Maybe  those  men 
on  the  float  are  losing  all  the  money  they've  got  in  the 
world,"  and  that  made  me  feel  pretty  glum;  and  then 
I  thought,  "Maybe  poor  Billoo  is  drowned  by  now," 
and  I  went  cold  all  over. 

"Why  don't  you  make  the  trump,  Sam?"  said  Mrs. 
Giddings. 

"Good  Heavens!"  I  said.  "Did  I  deal?  Won't 
somebody  play  my  hand?  I'm  worried  about  Sally." 

Then  I  bolted  upstairs,  and  there  was  Sally  lying 
on  her  bed,  with  a  glass  tube  sticking  out  of  her 
mouth. 

"How  are  you,"  I  said,  "and  what  are  you  doing?" 

"I  feel  rather  sick,  Sam,"  she  said.  And  she  looked 
so  pale  that  I  could  have  screamed.  "And  I'm  taking 
my  temperature." 

353 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"Do  you  think  you've  got  fever?"  I  cried. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said. 

"Oh,  Sally— Sally!"  I  cried.  "Forgive  me— it's  all 
rny  fault — and  I  love  you  so —  My  God!  what  shall  I 
do?  I  know " 

Then  I  kissed  her,  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  all 
the  way  to  the  boat-house.  I  found  a  bathing-suit, 
undressed,  put  it  on,  tore  down  to  the  pier,  and  went 
overboard.  I  suppose  the  water  was  ghastly  cold,  but 
I  didn't  feel  it.  I  suppose  I  never  should  have  gotten 
all  the  way  across  to  the  main-land  if  I  hadn't  been 
boiling  with  fear  and  excitement,  and  besides  I  walked 
and  waded  across  the  middle  ground  and  got  a  rest 
that  way.  The  men  on  the  float  kept  calling  to  me, 
and  asking  me  questions,  but  I  hadn't  enough  breath 
nor  reason  to  answer  them;  I  just  swam  and  swam  and 
swam. 

About  fifty  feet  from  the  pier  on  the  main-land  I 
began  to  get  horrible  pains  up  and  down  the  muscles 
of  my  legs;  and  they  wanted  to  stop  kicking,  but  I 
wouldn't  let  them.  I  had  to  sit  on  the  pier  for  a  while 
to  rest,  but  pretty  soon  I  was  able  to  stand,  and  some 
how  or  other,  running  and  walking,  I  got  to  the  doctor's 
house  in  Stepping-Stone.  He  is  very  nice  and  an  old 
friend,  and  the  moment  I  told  him  Sally  was  desper 
ately  sick  he  said  she  wasn't,  and  I  felt  better.  He 
gave  me  some  brandy  to  drink,  and  we  started  for  the 

354 


ON  THE  SPOT 

island.  I  begged  him  to  run,  but  he  wouldn't.  He 
walked  leisurely  and  pointed  out  this  tree  as  a  very 
fine  specimen  and  well  grown,  or  that  one  as  too 
much  crowded  by  its  neighbors.  He  was  daft  on 
forestry.  Patients  didn't  interest  him  a  bit.  Finally, 
however,  we  got  to  the  pier,  and  stole  somebody's 
row-boat,  and  I  took  the  oars,  and  then  we  went 
faster. 

When  we  entered  the  house  we  found  all  the  women 
except  Sally  surrounding  Billoo.  He  was  very  red  in 
the  face  and  dressed  only  in  the  canoe  sail;  but  he 
wasn't  in  the  least  embarrassed.  He  had  a  self- 
satisfied  smile;  and  he  was  talking  as  fast  and  as  loud 
as  he  could. 

We  told  him  to  go  to  bed  and  be  ashamed  of  himself, 
and  sleep  it  off.  And  he  said  that  nobody  understood 
him,  and  denied  having  drunk  the  whole  case  of  cham 
pagne,  and  he  said  that  he  was  in  perfect  control  of  all 
his  faculties,  and  that  if  the  ladies  wished  him  to,  he 
could  dance  a  hornpipe  for  them  that  he  had  learned 
when  he  was  a  sailor.  .  .  . 

The  doctor  and  I  went  upstairs;  and  while  he 
was  with  Sally  I  changed  into  proper  clothes;  and 
then  I  waited  outside  the  door  for  him  to  come  out 
and  tell  me  the  worst.  After  a  long  time  he  came. 
He  looked  very  solemn,  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him. 

355 


ON  THE  SPOT 

"What  is  it?"  I  said,  and  I  think  my  voice  shook 
like  a  leaf. 

"Sam,"  he  said  gravely,  "Sally  is  by  way  of  cutting 
her  first  wisdom  tooth." 

"Good  Lord!"  I  said,  "is  that  all?" 

"It's  enough,"  said  the  doctor,  "because  it  isn't  a 
tooth." 

"Oh!"  I  said,  "oh!     What  ought  I  to  do?" 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I'd  go  in,  and  tell  her  how  glad 
you  are,  and  maybe  laugh  at  her  a  little  bit,  and  make 
much  of  her." 

But  I  couldn't  laugh  at  Sally,  because  she  was  crying. 

I  took  her  in  my  arms  and  made  much  of  her,  and 
asked  her  why  she  was  crying,  and  she  said  she  was 
crying  because  she  was  glad. 

When  the  doctor  had  returned  to  Stepping-Stone, 
he  got  the  Hobo's  captain  on  the  telephone  and  told 
him  from  me  to  bring  the  Hobo  back  to  Idle  Island 
at  once.  She  came  about  six,  just  as  the  tide  was  get 
ting  high,  and  she  brought  rescue  to  the  men  on  the 
float,  and,  better  than  rescue,  she  brought  the  evening 
papers. 

There  had  been  a  big  day  on  Wall  Street;  one  of  the 
biggest  in  its  history.  And  the  men  whom  we  had 
kept  from  going  to  business  had  made,  among  them, 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  dollars,  just  by  sitting  still. 

356 


ON  THE  SPOT 

But  they  were  ungrateful,  especially  Billoo.  He  com 
plained  bitterly,  and  said  that  he  would  have  made 
three  times  as  much  money  if  he  had  been  on  the  spot. 

When  the  men  paid  the  bets  that  they  had  lost  to  me, 
I  turned  the  money  over  to  my  father's  secretary  and 
told  him  to  deposit  it  as  a  special  account. 

"What  shall  I  call  the  account?"  he  asked. 

"Call  it,"  I  said,  "the  account  of  W.  Tooth." 


357 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


26Se'53BW 


YB  68242 


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